#i think it would be a good routine element for me

[rockingthegraveyard]

Think I'm going to learn how to crochet so I can make a temperature blanket for this year. May not be able to start it for another week but I've already started to write down the temperature for each day so far.

[vatelixx]

The enormity of my desire (disgusts me),

Early seasons (1 — start of 2) Spencer Reid x afab!BAU!reader

SMUT (and fluff, some angst in relation to Spencer’s past because it can never be too happy, we’re not allowed nice things here). first times & explorations of intimacy.

──── autistic spencer (it’s a central theme to the plot), reader is actually morally good (for once).

Warnings: sub spencer (what did u even expect?), heavy corruption kink, first time for Spencer (all i do is sit around and think about how i’d like to devirgin that genius), HEAAVY praise kink, very very inexperienced Spencer, slight? oral fixation, they’re both just rlly down bad (i told u i would write something light, i delivered), Reader is whipped, Spencer is sooo much worse. Biblical references, Religious imagery, i think i talk about math equations???? And random metaphors/complexes.

w.c: 4k

a/n: i rlly wanted to explore aspects of spencer that criminal minds swept under the rug (cough cough his undiagnosed autism, cough cough his social exclusion, cough cough his crippling fear of forever being alone).

───────────────

There’s a lot Spencer hasn’t done.

He knows he’s behind, that he never quite caught up when it came to the taboo of sex and intimacy. Everything, everything, he’s ever had has been centred around exclusion, alienation, he feels like he’s lived on pause. Frozen, never advancing, stuck on ‘go’. Touch isn’t easy for him, interpersonal relationships are worse. He’s different, god he’s heard that his entire life. ‘You’re not weird, you’re just… different’, but maybe he is weird. Maybe his whole existence is just one big cosmic fuck you, because he’s missed out on so much, so much that he can’t understand, comprehend, act out against. Falling behind; this is the only area of life where he continuously comes up short, inexperienced, naive, he’s not used to being incompetent.

He’s never experienced want the way others do. He could never just hook up, fall into the body of another, expose them to the vulnerable elements of his stature. Open himself up to scrutiny. He might be a genius, he might be intellectually advanced, accepted into a multitude of ivy leagues before he was old enough to vote, but there’s drawbacks to his success. Social awkwardness, an inability to blend, mould, be one of the crowd. Sometimes he wishes he was average, something grey and mundane, so far reduced from the person he is now— it would all be plainly simple.

But he’s not, he’s not. So, this is the weight he has to bare for the brain he never asked for.

Pyrrhic victory, he’ll always be renowned for his intelligence. ‘You’re going to change the world kid,’ maybe, but simultaneously, he’ll never get to experience said world. There’s a chance he’ll always be on the outside, watching normal people gravitate towards each other. Live dreary lives of domesticated simplicity. Stacked bills, arguments over money and parenting techniques. Going to bed angry, only to turn around, mid-night, and resolve it, to not sleep on bad blood. To take them off the couch, to settle into predestined sides of the mattress.

There’s not enough possessions in the world he’d sacrifice just to experience love.

Hedgehog dilemma, the challenges of human intimacy. The hedgehogs want to move closer, to preserve heat during cold. But, they are forced, biologically cursed to remain apart, in order to prevent themselves from harming each other. Spencer doesn’t want to be hurt, to hurt, it’s a morbid byproduct of his upbringing; all he ever endured was mockery.

He thought he’d never get to experience the physical, carnal aspects of existence. And sure, he made peace with the notion, accepted the consequences of being born atypical. Learnt to live without.

But then, oh then there was you. Pretty, intellectual you who quite literally tipped his world on it’s axis. Upheaved the most stable of routines. New to the BAU, he wanted you to last. To stay around, endure the worst of the job. If only for his selfish benefit of orbiting in your presence.

He remembers how it all started: Detroit, another case, more budget cuts, forced proximity that sent you spiralling into a shared bed for the night.

“You’re my favourite person in the team.” you admitted, “And I know that’s dumb, because we’ve spoken the least, but… you’re just, so you. That’s a good thing by the way, a really really good thing.”

He couldn’t quite believe you were talking about him. Spencer, who spilt coffee, and slipped into ceaseless tangents about obscure information. Spencer, who walked into walls when you were around, stumbling over his sentences before deftly, very astutely, giving up, walking away mid-conversation. He wore sweater-vests and colourful mismatched socks, it’s not like he was going to be crowned ‘white boy of the month’.

“Not dumb.” Spencer had responded, shifting closer to tangle further into the warm mess of this accidental situation. “That’s good. I like being me.” he mumbled. “Sometimes…. sometimes it sucks. But that’s okay. I think it’s okay?”

He moved to press his face into the crook of your neck, but you were faster, gathering him by tousled hair, forcing him to look you in the eye.

Oh.

“Please. Please.” he whispered, breaking apart, fracturing, “Please like me. And more than in a weird, ‘just friends or coworkers’ way.”

You did. You do. He should’ve kissed you then, but maybe he was scared, maybe he couldn’t quite discern his feelings, separate the logic from the emotional. So he waited, waited, waited until now. Your third date, you take him to an exhibition within a science centre: replica models of the solar system, filling rooms up, papier-mâché sculptures illuminated by light.

Best date ever. You listen, even when he’s rambling about planets, when he’s pointing out that yes, Jupiter’s density is less than water. That, technically, it would float in a bathtub, if one was built to accommodate its size. You don’t care that he’s not exactly the staple-piece for conventionally attractive males. That he’s nerdish, and awkward, and so so inexperienced when it comes to this.

In his apartment, later, much later, he looks at you, looks at you like you’re the one who just solved the fucking Riemann hypothesis.

“What do you want the most? Like,… if you could ask for one thing.” you say, and god, Spencer loves when you pose these deep, hypothetical questions. When you make him think, because you, you are the biggest challenge to his intellect yet.

You. He wants to say. But he settles for ‘Being remembered,’ instead. He works to untangle layers of fabric, your scarf, your jacket, letting out an exasperated laugh when he meets your amused gaze. “Right now though? I think I’d settle for kissing you.”

You cup his jaw, tracing your fingers along the sharp curve, and god he has perfect anatomy. “Settle huh? You should be more appreciative.”

He leans forward to press a chaste kiss against your lips. Drawing away for a moment, just to return because he’s never had this before. Because for the first time in his life, he gets it. He gets physical attraction, even if it took time. He’s kissed, been kissed, yes. But he could count those moments on one hand, and if you asked how many he truly enjoyed, he’d be left with no fingers raised.

“Believe me, i’m very appreciative…”

This isn’t like before, what he felt in the past; he expected something monotone, flighty, a brief fleeting moment of satisfaction. Means to an end. No, it’s actually the best thing he’s ever experienced, and he’s going to become so insufferable after this, because he’s just found out he is very very into kissing.

Correction: he’s very into kissing you.

In the moment between parting, and touching again, he assumes you to be divinity personified. Spencer has never been religious, but something of this magnitude should be canonised. He wants to ask you. Ask you when you became this beautiful. When you became the person he needs to kiss a second time, kiss a third time, kiss until his lips go numb.

A shaky inhale, a pause. “I hope… I hope that it was okay - I mean, it was good for me. Really, really good. Um—“ to be honest, he’s just glad he didn’t say thankyou.

“Yeah, Spence. That was… wow.” you draw your bottom lip between teeth, press into tissued flesh. Jesus Christ. “Wanna try again?”

Yes yes yes yes. He looks at you, pupils blown obscenely out of proportion. Part of him wants to say, ‘why didn’t we do this sooner?’ But that’s not fair; he’s only ready now. Now that he feels, now that he might be a little in love with you.

“Please,” is his answer, and then he’s catching your face in the palms of his hand, tugging your lips back to his, because admittedly, they have ached in the long, extensive period you were apart (53 seconds).

This time it deepens and Spencer sees stars. It’s an astronomical phenomenon, something interstellar— and god, he’s relating kissing to space. They should just tape the word ‘virgin’ to his back and call it a day.

There’s soft little breathy sighs escaping his mouth now, bleeding into yours. And yeah, spontaneous combustion might be a real threat. Actually no, it would hardly be spontaneous; there’s a clear, clear cause, and it just so happens to be your ruinous lips.

This is an entirely new facet of the human experience. The kiss is electric; he’s always been partial toward physics, and right now his veins carry an alternating current.

You know, he could probably write a thesis based on this.

You both stumble back back back until he’s hitting a wall, and yes, thankyou. He’s making all sorts of sounds he can’t justify, and it’s a supernova, an infinite black pool of— oh, he thinks he might die, ascend, transcend, when you press your thumb against his chin, hold your lips at just a little slant from his. Force him to wait there.

“Please,” he’s never been above begging. A worthy sacrifice, one he’ll certainly repeat again because you return to the kiss, and the world around him dissolves.

You’ve got one hand tangled in his hair. Tousled auburn, fingers sinking into strands, pushing all the way down to the root. The other is still cupping his face, keeping him close, keeping him selfishly close actually.

“Spence,” you murmur. And yes. Yes. He likes that. The way his name sounds rolling off your tongue, like it was destined to be there. Like he was destined to be yours.

His world is ending. So is yours. Fuck it, he presses himself against your thigh, and ohmygodohmygod. He’s being loud, he’s actually being so criminally loud right now because apparently he’s the most whorish virgin to ever exist.

“I lied, I lied,” he admits between messy kisses, “When you asked what I wanted the most? It’s not to be remembered, well it is, its on the list. But—“ he groans, kisses you again because talking interrupts matters that are more important. Like your lips.

“I wanna cum.”

Eloquent.

Spencer Reid being dirty? Oh, it’s hot, it’s so hot to reduce someone to such an obscene state. To reduce him, the boyish fumbling nerd (who just so happens to be the most beautiful person in existence) to such a degrading mess.

Still, there’s shock. Not because he said it (you greatly appreciate the indecent things falling from those pretty lips right now), but because—

“You’ve never? Haven’t even experienced it once? By yourself?”

He should be embarrassed, but his lips are red, his eyes are glassy, and the bulge in his pants is straining to be touched. “Never,” he sighs shakilly. “Never, and i’m— i’m starting to understand why it’s so popular.”

He whimpers, pushes himself against your thigh, because the friction, yes. “Is that weird? Please don’t think i’m weird. Because I’m really, really weird. Just maybe… not in that way?”

It’s never been enough. His body sometimes feels numb to the touch, and yet still so very overstimulated. Like he manually blocks himself from feeling, already prepared for the flinch. How does he explain that life hasn’t been kind to him? That he hates his body because of what people made it out to be when he was a child. Stripping him naked, tying him to a goalpost, always the underdog. The one to be targeted, tormented.

“It’s actually kinda hot,” you interrupt his thoughts, and just because you’re evil, corrupt, the worst, you press your thigh harder against his clothed cock, palm covering his mouth when a plethora of whiny sounds escape his mouth.

It’s performative, really. Alone in his apartment, there’s no need for noise control. So when your thumb slips between parted, swollen lips, he knows to suck. The average human hand has between 10,000 and 10 million bacteria, and Spencer does not actually give a fuck anymore.

“To think that you’ve never even felt what it’s like. That you’re gonna feel it with me for the first time. I get to see that shit— god, you’re going to look so fucking pretty for me.”

You draw your thumb out of his mouth, and he has the audacity to whine.

He’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. It’s all tertiary now. Only this matters.

“Please don’t praise me—“ he protests, “I’ll probably finish in my pants.”

“Praise kink, noted.”

You laugh, and he can only groan, curse existence for being this cruel to his overworked, undervalued body. “Don’t— don’t laugh. You’re not supposed to laugh, that can heighten performance anxiety. Increase insecurity, and…” he sighs, “You do not care. Sadistic tendencies, noted.”

“Shut up. Wanna see you.” you say, and he’s just muttering breathless mhm’s, too delirious to function; his body is betraying the last iota of self-control like the little whore it apparently is.

His sweater comes off first, then his top. Discarded fabric, his raised arms when you mutter a candid ‘up’, giving way to exposed skin. In response? Your pupils dilate. Spencer knows because he’s analysing, profiling. If you hate him like this, he’s fairly certain he’ll drag himself into a self-dug early grave. He wishes he was being melodramatic. That your approval didn’t have such a substantial impact on his carefully-constructed ego. But, oh, it does. It does.

Thin, with a long, defined torso, he blushes, rose blemished skin, when your hands drag across his stomach. He’d love to say he reacts sanely, suavely. Urbane to your touch. But that would be a total, discreditable lie. Instead, his back arches, seeking contact, following the path of your fingertips with pitiful desperation. He feels malleable, willing to bend and contort, if only to feel more.

“How can you not think you’re pretty, Spence?” His pants are gone next, then his stained boxers, fabric borderline sheer now, soaked through with pre-cum.

Spencer feels betrayed. His body never responds, not to his own hands, not to his own thoughts. And yet, the moment you’re on him, he’s a live-wire. It’s sick, heinous, double-crossing. Maybe it’s purposeful, done just to spite him. Figures.

“Holy shit, look at you. Look at how perfect you are.” Spencer wants to object, because he distinctly told you not to praise him. However,.. right now, the lights are on but nobody is home. Brain-death, he’s certainly in a vegetative state.

“Ohmygodohmygod,” he whimpers, because no amount of knowledge about human anatomy and physiology could prepare him for how he feels under your touch. No amount of education in the psychology of relationships could inform him of how viscerally wrong the way you look at him feels.

Because it’s not wrong, not all. It’s the most right he’s ever felt, and he’ll tell you that if you’ll just keep it up.

The sounds he’s making are phonographic, lewd, you’ve given up on trying to stifle them now. Where have you been hiding? Your eyes fall, and he wants to blush away from the exhibiting gaze, but he’s just…. too far gone; the thought of your touch outweighs any previous reticence. Then, oh then, you drop to your knees, and shit. He expected your thigh, maybe your hand if he was lucky, not—

This. Your mouth, your tongue, your pretty lips; god, god, is this a sin? Because if it is, he’ll take it.

“Please,” he whines, and he can’t look anymore because the sight alone is going to send him over the edge. He’s gripping the wall, scrambling scrambling for purchase, because he’s trying not to grip you, but how exactly does he keep this respectful?

He’s pretty sure they’re past that, considering your mouth is currently wrapped around his cock, and he’s debauched.

You want this, you want him, he feels like he’s transcended humanity, like he’s become someone, anyone and anything, that deserves the way you’re taking him apart, piece by piece. In the aftermath, he hopes you don’t leave a single ounce of him intact.

“Wanna kiss you. Oh— oh oh,” he’s sobbing now, “Come back here. Miss your mouth— even if it’s,” he looks down and that’s a mistake. “Please.”

Of course it would be Spencer to disrupt the best (and admittedly only) head of his life because he needs you closer.

You oblige, raising from your knees, and Spencer thinks it might be sacrilegious. But then again, he feels religion in your touch so it can’t be too profane. Maybe? He’s not sure, he’s not sure and it doesn’t matter. Ethics and morality have long since disintegrated, sins are engrained into humankind. He almost wants to thank Eve for tearing into the apple, because it’s allowed this irreverence to occur.

Spencer blindly follows you through the apartment, stumbling and muttering until he can collapse against the bed. Baring his pretty neck as his head hits the bedframe. Tangled in sheets, draped over his lap, his deft fingers run across your waist, mapping out the structure of your frame. If only to remember, recite this act of blasphemy.

“Spence,” you whisper, and then his lips are crashing into yours, stealing breath, stealing sanity. He whimpers, murmurs a protest when you draw back, and you can only laugh. “Lets get you off, yeah? You wanna feel an orgasm, pretty boy?”

“Yes, yes please. That would uh— yes.” he’s not even sure how he’s conscious right now. His body, god his body, has endured more pleasure in the last hour than it has for the majority of his life. Your hands scathe, and Spencer is willing to indefinitely burn, if just to feel them one more time.

You only stop to take off your clothes, and surely there needs to be prep? To reaffirm, he knows anatomy, the correct procedure, how the transgression is supposed to occur. And yet, that’s from a clinical, objective mindset. Do this, do that, etc etc. Nothing works out like that in practice.

You’re so wet, panties stained through, he spares a moment to run his fingers across your thighs, hand slipping beneath fabric to graze your clit. The moan that follows has him distracted, thumb tracing circlets, over and over until you’re pulling back to return the balance. The balance, which admittedly is skewed, tipped scales, you’re on top. He falls to the weight of your influence.

And yeah, he’s more than fine with that. Jesus, you drag your panties down, down your thighs, your legs, then they’re reaching your ankles, pooling there for a moment before they’re being discarded, tossed somewhere on his floor — leaving behind a souvenir that yes, yes this happened.

“I can’t,” he says, burying his face into your shoulder when you take him. It’s slow, sinking onto his cock like every inch of warmth will destroy him. Maybe it will. Maybe he doesn’t care, because he deserves this. He deserves to feel after so much repression.

Or maybe, maybe he’s just become the biggest slut known to mankind. Likely.

Your body presses against his, and he thinks he’s going to disintegrate, because he feels so good. He understands now, he understands why people do this. Why it’s integral to the function of most. This is the best day of his life. This. Is. The. Best. Day. Of. His. Life.

There’s this noise, this pathetically loud whimper when you start to roll your hips— and oh your body is wet against him, and you’re so tight, and it’s perfect because he doesn’t have to do anything.

He can just sit here, look pretty, and cry.

He knows he’s a giver, that he’d bleed himself dry for you. It’s a curse, he supposes: so willing to bend backwards for the satisfaction of the people he trusts. But, this is foreign, and he wants to watch you, aimlessly stare, dumb and empty-headed as you wield his body like a weapon. Turn him into something perniciously yours.

Spencer has no reference for what an orgasm is supposed to feel like, and yeah, he’s really good at guessing in these type of situations. Because he’s rolling his thumb over your clit again, and he wants to draw it into his mouth, to see you laid out across bedsheets, writhing, unable to do anything but suffocate him with your thighs.

You clench around him, back arched, releasing a series of strained moans. With one hand tangled in his dishevelled hair, the other pressed against his chest, your face contorts, your body stiffens. There’s no way his incessant whimpering just got you off?

Okay. So you like him desperate. Point taken.

“Please— please, wanna cum. Wanna feel it so bad,” he’s slurring over his words, sentences punctured by devastating whimpers. And look at him, asking for permission, waiting even though his body has been teetering on the edge for so long now.

“Shh, shh..” you press your forehead against his, and he melts. Reoccurring theme. His hand grips your jaw, thumb pushed firmly against your chin, keeping you close. “You wanna cum for me, baby? Gonna give me your first?”

“Mhm— mhm…” is all he can say. When you pick up your pace, he has to burrow his face into the crook of your neck, whimpers messy and broken off, suppressed against your warm skin.

“Oh. Oh…” he repeats, again. Like there’s anything else he could utter, because this is earth-shattering.

It’s the sun, and all eight planets combined, and the universe collapsing in on itself, and he’s bucking, squirming, releasing into you, spilling deep.

He sobs. Breaks down. Because it’s so so good, and he can’t believe he ever deprived his body of this.

Neediest whore to ever exist, apparently.

It takes him a while to come back. Longer to regain motor function, to sink into present day. Life, and expectations, and everything, everything, your touch eradicated.

“Just… just stay like this?” he asks, collapsing against your body after he’s drawn out of you. There’s mess, evidence of your ministrations, but cleanliness seems futile when he’s blissed out, caught in a post-orgasmic haze that yes yes yes he needed so badly.

You card your hands through his hair, watch the way he stares up at you, large, widened eyes, chin resting against your chest. “Hi,” he mutters dumbly.

“Spence,” Spence, Spence, Spence. He could drown himself in that nickname.

“Yeah?” he breathes out.

“You we’re so good—“

He rolls away from you, finding a home for his face in the pillow. “Stop. Stop.” he groans, “Don’t do that. You’re going to destroy me. I’m not… equipped for this, for you. Someone should just sedate me, put me out of my misery, a coma sounds like—“

He tilts his head to the side, relinquishing, “Okay. Sorry. Meltdown over. Can we shower? Then maybe do this again? Which will make the shower inconsequential, I suppose. There’s a new documentary I want to watch, and oh, you still haven’t seen the third Star Wars—“

He’s happy, content, over the fucking moon, to be silenced with your lips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, hand interlocking with yours as you both fall back against the mattress, “Let’s do this again.”

[seelestia]

✧ the gambler and his knight.

aventurine can't stand having his outfit exposed to the elements nor to the rude hands of clients that won't cooperate – luckily for him, he has you to take care of it all. { aventurine with a bodyguard!reader. }

⎯ fluff & angst. 2.9k wc. headcanons w/ some written scenes. the plot is vv subtle but it's there a.k.a aventurine simps for you (jokingly) but you both end up catching feelings (not jokingly). mentions of violence, death & russian roulette. pre-penacony timeline. a self-indulgent piece to celebrate this blog's 2nd anniv! ★

★ 〜 masterlist.

© seelestia on tumblr, june 2024. please do not repost, plagiarize, translate, use for AI-related purposes or claim as your own.

aventurine who graciously welcomes you under his employment with a game. just a little something to ease your nerves and get you used to his ways. you look at him with such incredulity as if he just fell and hit his head silly. he pays no mind to this – finds it to be amusing a great deal, actually. keep it up, newcomer!

“heads or tails?” he asks, flipping a coin in the air and catching it seamlessly. a routine for him, you would've figured from the sight. “that's. . . an odd way of saying hello,” you point out but your tone bears no hint of protest. he notices that.

“i've heard that one before,” aventurine tilts his head with a smile, nonchalant. “so what's your guess?”

“tails,” you reply without any delay. it's a mindless answer; getting it wrong this way would prove to bear less disappointment compared to putting actual thought in it. “heads for me then,” he whistles.

aventurine opens his palm. it's heads. you frown as if to suspect foul play—but you don't because you know about his notoriously good luck—and your new boss chuckles, almost placatingly.

“looks like i win,” he grins without a care in the world at all. “aren't you starving? let's fetch ourselves a meal, friend.”

a loss rewarded with a prize? you blink. with grace so in contrast to the whiplash you feel, aventurine walks past you with a trail of expensive perfume in his wake. obviously, he expects you to follow and you do after a moment's reluctance.

(this guy is more confusing than the stellaron.)

aventurine who grows quite fond of seeing you acquiesce to his wishes, whether serious or trivial. could you ward off those reporters? could you pour him a drink? could you play a game of poker with him? could you join him for lunch? you're always so professional that he starts to find some mirth in pushing your buttons (never too much). unlucky for you, he does it to be affectionate and lucky for him, you always say yes even if you roll your eyes every single time.

aventurine who trusts you with his credit card. . . to a worrying degree. when asked if he's sure about this, he just waves it off and says it'll be safer in your hands. seriously, this card has been in your possession longer than it's ever been in his. sometimes, he does ask for it back – only to drop some 200k credits to your account. “a tip for doing a good job,” he'd wink casually while you're flabbergasted beyond belief.

aventurine who finds it extremely attractive whenever you step in to protect him from harm. dealing with uncooperative clients is a day in his life, yet some are so brutish they resort to getting physical – but he has you to make sure their hands stay off him. a gun in his direction? knocked off before the trigger even has a chance to get pulled. reaching out to grab him by the collar? they're already on the ground, your foot threateningly pressed on their back as a warning. what a dashing sight – and thanks to you, his pristine outfit has been saved more times than he could count at this point.

aventurine who likes to call you his “knight in shining armor” teasingly. awh, you don't like it? he thinks you're more than deserving of that title with the way you always swoop in to get him out of trouble. if the thousands of credits he gives you aren't enough yet, won't a cute title suffice? “it sounds corny,” you tell him with a grimace—and maybe, yes—but he just chirps coyly, “dunno. i think it's fitting.”

aventurine who makes it his responsibility to check on you after a rough mission. credits are no problem, he'd even reserve the most expensive private doctor in the cosmos if that means you'll recover faster. sadly, he has little to no medical skills – so the most he can offer you is bandages. sure, you can take a bullet to the stomach and handle a punch or two, that's your job, but what about tiny scratches? . . .don't tell him you're about to reject his kind offer.

“what's your favorite color?” he queries, somewhat out of the blue considering the situation where he is helping you tend to a minor cut on your finger. you raise an eyebrow, “why do you wanna know?” as he gently plasters a plain-colored bandage on your skin (which he's only been granted permission to after minutes of begging you to let him do it).

“for the bandages,” aventurine answers. he finds no need to hide his intentions as he runs a thumb over the bandage, softly as to not hurt you, to keep its position secure. “so that the next time you ask, i'll have some in your favorite color for sure.”

“how. . . thoughtful of you,” you snort, amused.

(briefly, he resists the urge to ask if he can place a kiss on your cut for 'luck'. but if he does, you might have his head. so, he'll try another time.)

aventurine who slowly begins to find a sense of comfort in your company. maybe, it's the way you scoff at his quips with a smile or the way you always tell him to be careful. maybe, it's the way you take him seriously or the way you stay by his side—is your job description the only reason why?—or maybe, he's just pathetic and reeks of so much loneliness you feel sympathetic. he can't tell, but he hopes the luxuries he has can persuade you to stay just a little longer. even if you don't actually care. (you do.)

aventurine who notices how anxiety brims in your gaze when you watch him gamble at the table – with a sum too high to be considered sane and sometimes, his own life. he can see it all; how your hands shake as if you want to reach out, how your lips tremble as if you want to tell him to stop. but this is what he's made for, is it not? he'll survive one way or another. . . until fate decides the bill for all his past good fortune is finally due. and when the time comes, he'll be ready for it. (will you?)

a game of russian roulette.

it always starts with thrills only to end with carnage spilled all over the table. luck is the only thing worth praying for at that point and oh, is luck not the dearest friend aventurine ever had? hence the reason why he always agrees, not with a yes but with a “why not?”.

you're there as his protector, yet utterly condemned to the role of a witness as soon as aventurine nods along to that darned game. panic rushes through your veins as the gun is passed around so relaxedly, so easily with laughter all around. aventurine's next in line, you realize grimly. the next decision that comes after is spontaneous, so different from your usual calculated nature – you drag him out of the casino in a frenzy before the weapon even lands in his hand. in your head, there is no other thought louder than: he could've died.

“a shame i didn't get to the fun part,” you hear him hum from behind you, too disturbingly calm for your liking. the bustling noises inside the establishment have all but faded into the background. “that was close, hm?” he laughs, a sound you would've found endearing if this was another occasion. any occasion that doesn't involve teetering dangerously on the precipice of death.

you stop in your tracks and aventurine, behind you, naturally follows. your silence is something he first takes note of and the way your hand shakes as it holds his is the second. you still haven't let go. what's going through your mind? he calls out your name softly, perplexed at your lack of explanation.

“. . .why did you say yes?” you respond with a bitter question. “you could've died. you almost died,” you try to hold back a shout – yet, your words are spat in such a fusillade he feels a seed of guilt starting to bloom inside his lifeless heart. he discards it in favor of putting on a frivolous smile.

“oh, relax,” he lets out a chuckle, one that sounds so ignorant of the taut tension in the air. “it's just some russian roulette. why so serious?” he shrugs as if to physically brush off any seriousness clinging to his figure. his remark gives off the assumption that every single hint of your worry has flown over his head.

“it is serious. . .” you bite your bottom lip. he sneers in return, “yeah? since when?” as if to challenge you to give an actual answer. his life is full of risks, to say otherwise would be a lie. “you're sweet for worrying but you don't actually care about me that much, do you?” he snickers to himself. like the thought of your caring about him can't possibly be true, like it's all just a terrible joke.

but he's the only one laughing.

aventurine falls quiet and finally, genuinely meets your gaze for the first time that night. he doesn't like what he sees. your lips are downturned, unamused and saddened—you do care, a realization that has been left unsaid—and all remainders of levity in him are replaced by immediate dread. it only now registers that the anger, concern, frustration on your face are for him; they're the unavoidable consequences from caring about him.

(his eyes widen. no, no, no.)

“c'mon, you—” he covers it up with a carefree smile, as feigned as it came. he shoves his hand in one of his pockets. it's shaking. “. . .worry too much. you've seen me play a handful of games before. i've never lost a wager, remember?”

you don't look convinced at all. in fact, you look as if you've arrived at the brink of seething. “and if you do? for once in your life, you lose?” you prod him for more. for something, for anything – perhaps, for a promise that he won't do it again.

(but you know aventurine, you know there would be no such promise.)

“then i lose,” he says, final and resigned. “there's really nothing else to it,” he tries to offer you another smile but it didn't quite reach his eyes. “hey. at least, you'll be there to witness my spectacular fall, right? it'll be a show to remember.”

he nearly doesn't manage to keep up the façade. it's already as precarious as it can be. you don't reply to him this time – instead, you let go of his hand to wipe at your cheeks. his gaze trails after your fingers and it freezes upon seeing the pearly tears falling free from your eyes.

aventurine has never seen you cry before. you're always so stone-faced, so hard to break that he recalls almost cheering when he heard you laugh for the first time. that was when you finally won a round of poker against him. a pity, he would've reminisced about the memory more. . . if only the matter of losing and winning a game isn't as serious as it is now.

“don't say that,” you mutter, harshly wiping away at the incessant tears pouring from your eyes more than you'd ever allow them to. some make their way into your mouth, they taste just as bitter as your current frustration. does he truly value his life so little? you can't fathom it, you can't fathom him at all.

but there is one thing you were certain of, at the very least: “you hired me to protect you,” you shake your head unrelentingly, “so i'll do it. until you throw me away, i won't let you die.”

you've stopped crying then. aventurine feels remorse; the tears that you shed because of him are starting to dry. the selfish part of him wants to reach out and brush them away with his thumb – but would you let him? would this lead you further down the rabbit hole that is him? in the end, he decides against it.

“. . .i'm sorry,” he sighs instead, raking a hand through his messy blond hair. whatever it is he is apologizing for, he doesn't have a clue either. he lets his eyes slip shut. he can't bear to look at you, can't bear to look at his pitiful reflection in your eyes.

(he's not worth caring about, can't you see? he dances hand in hand with death – there is no need to subject yourself to being a spectator.)

the two of you then part ways that night with shallow pleasantries on your tongues. no inside jokes, no evident yearning for the other to stay, no more than an awkward exchange of “i'll see you tomorrow.”

on his way 'home', regret and relief clash to form something inexplicably hollow inside kakavasha's chest. he wanted to wipe away your tears—what a regret—but if he did, they would've burned on his skin and became another mark to haunt him—what a relief he didn't. and frankly, if destiny is about to reap his debt, he'd rather go with no regrets at all.

whether those regrets include you? he doesn't have an answer just yet.

(the name at the bottom of his contract with fate is signed as kakavasha. but you wouldn't recognize that name. not as him, at least.)

aventurine whose eyes can't flutter close at night ever since thoughts of you fill his mind more than they already do before. you care for him, you want him to live—all his fault, he allowed himself to get too close—but these realizations are rooted in too deep and refuse to leave. what to do, what to do, what to do?

it isn't supposed to turn out like this.

what he and you have is meant to be transactional; he'd be spared from unnecessary scuffles and you'd be compensated with monetary payment. he means to keep it superficially fun; for him to tease you with jests—so you'd stay and save him from the deafening silence in his head—and for you to dismiss him with that adorably annoyed look on your face. just some silly banter, that's it.

so then, since when are there rounds of poker where he'd coo over your frown when you lost? or the sound of your lecturing after he secretly got you a high-end item? or meals shared together where you'd bicker over the bill? or bandages in your favorite color kept inside his bedside table? since when do you start to care? . . .since when does he start to care?

think of something else.

kakavasha tosses and turns in his bed, but the soft pillows and blanket do nothing to quell these bothers of his. are feelings always this complicated? he places a hand over his eyes, tired and exhausted, and stares at the ceiling as if it could provide him with an answer.

but there's no use.

in a moment void of logical thinking, he reaches for his phone and hovers a finger over your name in his contacts. he is usually good friends with bad ideas – but not this time, he sets his phone down and lets out a frustrated sigh that only his expensive pillows are there to hear.

(for gaiathra's sake, he hasn't even told you his real name yet.)

aventurine who becomes awfully distant the next time he sees you. you accompany him to meetings with clients per usual, but it's different. . . he talks to you succinctly, not verbosely with that trademark grin of his. his face is bereft of the things you grow to like seeing on him. a sincere smile instead of one just for show, for example. but even that's difficult to ask for since he only speaks to fill the silence with empty chatter. he doesn't look you in the eyes either; you feel a pang of hurt, you've always loved his eyes.

aventurine who discards all thoughts of you as soon as he steps inside pier point to be assigned a project. a conclave between the stonehearts is a matter of top confidentiality and you, dutifully, are ordered to wait for him outside the office. though, he'll admit; your absence by his side actually does leave a gaping void—such hypocrisy, really—but at least, those pesky voices in his head know how to shut up when it comes to work.

“penacony. . . is diamond finally ready to do something about it?”

aventurine rests his left hand on the small of his back, fiddling with the clubs-shaped detailing on the fabric there. it looks like an act of idleness from afar, but anyone observant enough would know it's a way to subdue whatever nerves he wishes to hide.

he waits for the person in front of him, gazing at the purplish-red sky of pier point at sunset, to speak. for their next words shall mark the start of his next journey in fate's course.

aventurine who hesitates to let you come to penacony with him at first. but it'd be poor reasoning not to, since some might have a bone to pick with him as the corporation's representative. . . and he knows you'll protest to come with anyway. fine then, situationship discomfiture be damned – not even a second after he steps out of the meeting, his neon eyes finally meet yours. “so, how does a trip to penacony sound?” he announces with a confident smile. you blink, noticing how his lips are wobbling at the sides. you don't say no, however. (if only the two of you know what sort of ride you're getting yourselves into.)

�� thanks for reading! reblogs with comments are most appreciated. why don't we all sob over this man like it's a cryfest ♡

[girllblogging777]

HEART EYES… AND HARDCOVERS 𝜗𝜚

spencer reid x gf!reader (fluff, book shopping)

↳ 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢��𝑡 : 1k

𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦 : in which spencer, like the perfect boyfriend he is, carries your books and pays for them too.

“well, if that isn’t my favourite, my straight out of a fairytale, my only proof of romance, biggest and favorite clients !”

a voice welcomed you cheerfully as you came into the bookstore, the words immediately bringing a smile to your face. the tiny bell above the door rang when you closed it, your other hand tightly holding spencer’s.

it was a routine for the two of you to get some new reading material whenever you run out of books at home, which, for the two of you happened to be once every couple of days.

spencer smiled politely at the woman behind the counter, who was shamefully staring at the two of you with heart in her eyes and you simply gave her a shrug, smiling. “hi, beth. we’re just here to help you pay your rent”

she looked amused at your remark, and if she answered something, you didn’t hear it. you were already long gone, walking past the bookshelves and not glancing back like you owned the place and had no need for directions (you didn’t), while spencer had quietly slipped away in pursuit of his own new source of happiness.

the books on the shelves gleamed in the sunlight, and no words could explain the warm feeling in your chest at the familiar smell of ink on paper. time seemed to stop when you while you picked the books, propping them on your hip and tracing their spines like each of them had been carved specifically to receive your touch.

this was how you enjoyed spending your days. browsing through the store and with nowhere else to be, with no one around to disturb you.

no one, apart from your nerdy husband a couple of feet away, who had somehow already managed to go through half the store. oh, and beth, who paid more attention to the two of you than to the clients she was currently advising.

“found anything yet ?” spencer asked, looking at you softly. his eyes darted down to the numerous books you were still carrying.

you nodded, noticing he seemed in his element too. after all, reading was one of the first things the two of you had bonded over when you first met. and if somehow, you two weren’t eachother’s soulmates, that was because literature held the number one spot in each of your hearts.

“yeah, i think this is good for now. hey, would you-“

he cut you off with a knowing smile, shifting the books from your hands to his. “carry your books, yes ma’am. you know i always do. now cmon, let’s go check out”

perfect. he was perfect.

✩✩✩✩

“will that be all for today ?” beth asked in a high pitched voice, to which spencer nodded in confirmation.

she silently scanned the books one by one, forming an actual pile on the counter, that almost reached your ribs. he glanced at you with a raised brow.

“this is mostly yours”

“right, as if you didn’t just pick another edition of white nights like we don’t have three others at home” you answered in the same teasing tone, taking your credit card out of your wallet.

wrong. move.

before you could realise what happened, spencer’s right hand had your wrists against the wooden counter, his left one handing his own credit card to beth.

“hey- what the hell ! beth-“ you exclaimed, looking up at the woman behind the cash register, hoping she’d have some girls-support-girls energy within her and would take your card.

she didn’t. she shook her head, grinning, and smoothly slid his credit card over the machine.

“that’s not fair, it was my turn to pay.” you protested helplessly, turning to them “and what are you, teaming up against me now ?”

they both shrugged, you had to admit you didn’t seem to have your word to say in this.

“sweetheart, it’s always the same thing. you two empty my store, fight to pay, and then leave” she said, almost bored at the thought of having to repeat the cycle once more.

“you forgot the part where i win the argument every time, by the way” spencer added like the smartass he was, and you stepped on his foot to shut him up, to which he let out an almost whimpering sound that only you heard.

then, beth handed you the quite heavy shopping bag, and you took it, admitting defeat. she seemed to read your thoughts.

“look. he’s smart, he buys you books. he’s basically a keeper”

a smile creeped up your lips, you turned around to look at spencer. he was pretending to be paying attention to the receipt, but the blush on his cheeks told you all you needed to know. yup. he was a keeper.

a/n : reblogs, comments and reviews are appreciated <333

[theemporium]

in exchange for you not paying for my therapy bills after your last luke and cherry chapter i would like to request a luke blurb

the morning after your first time spending the night at luke and jacks apartment. you’re not quite sure what to do so anything you do for luke you do for jack so he’s not left out. jack is like “i like this one can you keep her” while luke is like “babe your my gf jacks a big boy he can do it himself”

thank you for requesting and sorry (not sorry) for the therapy bills!🫶🏽

.

Despite dating for almost nine months, this had been the first time you had ever stayed overnight at Luke’s apartment.

You had been in his apartment many times throughout the duration of your relationship, but you always left for your own place at the end of the night. Or Luke would leave with you, letting his brother have some privacy since you didn’t have a roommate. It always made sense, and seemed easier too.

But the boys had just come back from a long roadie and it had been almost two weeks since you saw Luke in person because of your own busy schedule. And as excited as Luke was to see you, he didn’t have the energy in him to handle another travel journey, as short as it was.

“Just stay the night,” Luke had all but mumbled as he laid on top of you on his bed, his face nuzzled into the crook of your neck. “We can go to your place tomorrow.” 

And you didn’t have any reason to disagree with that agreement.

You just didn’t realise how out of your own element you were until you woke up the next morning. Luke was still fast asleep in his room and, considering how quiet the apartment was, you assumed Jack was too. It was stupid to feel so imposing but you couldn’t shake how weird it felt to be wandering around their place in the early hours of the day with neither awake yet.

You had decided to just follow the routine you usually followed at your place when Luke stayed over, scavenging whatever you could from their fridge and cupboards to make a decent breakfast with. Which, for two NHL players who should be eating more than the average person, was surprisingly not much, unless you wanted chicken and rice for breakfast (which no one in their right mind would want). 

You were lost in your own world, focused on the sizzling pan in front of you and the music playing from your phone on the counter beside you that you didn’t hear footsteps coming down the corridor.

“We own a spatula?” 

You turned, snorting when you found Jack glaring at the utensil in your hand like it had spawned out of nowhere. “I made Luke buy it when he tried to flip an egg with a fork.”

“Huh,” was all Jack managed to say. “He still asleep?” 

“Out like a light,” you nodded. 

“He’s gonna miss his breakfast,” Jack teased, rounding the counter so he could peek over your shoulder. 

“More French toast for us then,” you shrugged.

Jack paused, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. “You made me breakfast too?” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “Yeah?” 

“Oh.” 

“I mean, if you have plans for breakfast, it’s fine,” you assured him, waving him off. 

“No, I—” Jack paused before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, you’re Luke’s girlfriend.” 

Your confusion grew. “Yeah, and? You’re Luke’s brother. What’s that got to do with anything?” 

“You didn’t need to make me breakfast,” Jack said in a tone of voice that made it seem like his reply made any more sense than the previous ones. “But you did.” 

“What, you thought I would just make me and Luke breakfast and leave you to starve?” You questioned, the confusion slowly being replaced with amusement. “That would have been a dick move.”

Jack shrugged. “I would have understood.”

“Luke’s my boyfriend and you’re his brother but you’re also my friend, Jack,” you said to the boy with a soft smile. “Making extra breakfast is not the hardship you think it is.”

Jack laughed, nodding. “You’re my friend too.” 

Your smile widened.

“God, that smells so good,” Luke groaned as he shuffled into the room, messy curls tucked underneath the hood of his hoodie. He paused, glancing between the two of you with narrowed eyes. “Why do you both have that creepy smile? What are you planning?” 

“Confidential things,” Jack retorted, throwing his arm around your shoulder as he beamed at his younger brother. “Maybe when you’re old enough, we will tell you.” 

You snorted.

Luke frowned. “Ugh, can’t you go annoy Nico to feed you.” 

“Nuh uh, I was given an invite to join you both for breakfast here,” Jack said, still grinning widely. “You’re right, bro, it does smell so good.”

Luke let out a huff. “She is my girlfriend, go away and make your own breakfast.” 

“And she is my future sister-in-law,” Jack retorted, cackling at the way both you and Luke flushed at his words. “We are family now! Get used to it, Rusty!”

.

[lazyjellyfish300]

♡♡𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 ♡♡

🪻nanami kento x fem wife!reader

🪻words: 1.4k

🪻synopsis: kento reluctantly joins your nail routines by getting a little heart for you on his thumb, a tradition that only grows along with the family you create together. (based on the above pic from pinterest as the inspo for this idea)

🪻cw: x scarred post shibuya kento (always).💕 fluff, kento being such a loving father and husband, pregnancy.

🪻a/n: happy late father's day. i love kento eternally. 🌧️ 🌷sparkle dividers: @/anitalenia. swan pearl dividers by @/fairytopea. pics from pinterest.

Rainy Sunday afternoons call for self care.

While the raindrops rambled their cacophonic percussion on the windows of the farmhouse, your living room slowly transformed into a nail salon.

Bottles of nail polish surrounded you in a chaotic half moon fashion since you couldn't be bothered to organize by color in light of your last minute decision to paint your nails, just like the rain that loved to drizzle out of nowhere.

A double protective layer of paper towels laid over the old oak of your coffee table with the remaining roll half unraveled on the other side, the grocery store bag with the receipt at your feet, and low sound of your favorite tunes playing on your phone next to you as you painted the first stroke of lavender, the chemical fruity smell of acetone quite fragrant but you ignore it as you dilligently work.

It is a curious thing, watching you in your element like this, Kento thinks with his novel slightly strategically lowered to peer at you from over the top. The polish odor would have normally put him off but his intrigue and love for you kept him where he was.

He watches you paint each one with precision, his crows feet crinkling as you became more shaky when you had to switch to your less dominant hand, silently marveling at your routine that recalls him back to watching his mother do similar things as a young boy.

"Want me to do yours?" You catch him watching and smile as you softly blow on the freshly coated paint, a mischievous look in your eyes.

Kento shakes his head with a hum. "No thank you, sweetheart. I don't think bright colors would look good on me."

"Sure they would! I have a whole selection you can choose from." You gesture to your mini library of colors. "How about a soft blue?"

"I couldn't ask you to waste your products on me, love, but that's very thoughtful of you."

"Please? I actually really want to now. I could give you a hand massage and do your cuticles."

Kento raises a brow as now it's apparent that it's less about what he wants and more about indulging you. "Do you really want to?"

"Yes I do! I want to practice and you can tell me if I'm any good at it."

"If you insist."

He's sitting across from you now, his good eye trained on you as you massage his hands with moisturizer.

"Good?"

"Mhm." He tries to hold back a smile as you knead his hands like dough.

"Ken, relax, you're so tense."

*He lets his hands flop in your grasp*

"Thank you."

You skim your thumbs over his palms spreading the product, smoothing it into his skin, taking care over the textured exterior of his left hand and paying special attention to the delicate map of scars, his wedding ring in a tulip dish next to your forearm for safe keeping.

"You're quite good at this." He murmurs, low over the tirade of trickling raindrops just outside and the cozy hush of the room.

"You think so, my love?"

"I do. You're very thorough. I might not be opposed to doing this again, as a matter of fact."

"Awh, wait, really?"

"Really."

"So...does that mean you'll let me paint them?"

He chuckles and sighs. If he gave you an inch, best believe you're taking a mile.

"You really want to, don't you, sweetheart?"

"Yes! Here, look. What if I put just a little heart on your thumb, right here?" You gently wiggle his left thumb in between your fingers. "And if you don't like it, I swear I'll take it off."

He smiles, a gentle exhale flowing through his chest. "I suppose I can live with that."

He watches as your tongue barely pokes out of the corner of your mouth as you dip the end of a bobby pin into a bit of the lavender, carefully dotting a heart right into the bottom corner of his thumb.

"So innovative." He murmurs.

"All done." You take your hand in his like puzzle pieces, a white heart painted on your thumb whose matching lavender counterpart found its way onto his.

"Now we match." You grin as though you've trapped him, which he all but confirms as he slides his wedding ring back on his finger.

"Yes we do, love."

"Lunch?"

"You read my mind."

----

One of your neighbors at the seaside farmer's market can't help but notice the lavender heart on Kento's thumb as he counts up the freshly grown potatoes and stows them in a bag.

"Looks like you got a little something." The older man points.

Kento pauses in curiosity, following the man's gaze to the heart on his thumb.

"For my wife." He states simply, with a shrug.

The old man thinks it's odd, but he's been married for 30 years. He gets it.

"Take care of her, now."

"I will, sir, thank you."

-----

Painting your nails is more of a chore now but it's one you don't have to worry about for just one more month, even longer if you simply asked of him.

Kento catches a stripe of paint near your toe that ran outside the corner, as your swollen feet laid in his lap while you sipped your homemade lemonade in a glass, making sure they all look perfect before he secures the lid.

"Thanks, sweetheart." You reach for him and he helps you sit up a little, adjusting the pillows underneath your hips, compression socks laid out on the floor for you once your toes completely dry.

"You're very welcome." He hums, taking his freshly done hand in yours, a pink heart in the corner of his thumb this time.

"You think she'll like them?"

"She'll adore them, darling." Kento answers, giving your calves a squeeze as his attention momentarily flickers to the SpongeBob reruns on the TV.

"Should we ask?"

A flicker of a smile stains his lips as he brings a hand to your belly, waiting patiently until you feel a faint kick, "Yes."

"I love her so much already."

"She loves you too, sweetheart."

----

A pair of small chubby hands waits patiently for her turn on a rainy afternoon similar to the ones you shared before when it was just you and Kento under this old roof.

"'Kay, Noodle, what color are we thinkin?" You ask your baby girl as she sits in your lap. "Oh no, those ones are for mommy. This kind is safe for you." You wiggle the tiny bottles of gentle colors in front of her face, until she reaches for a pretty deep blue.

"This one?" You ask. "You know, that's daddy's favorite, too."

You shake the bottle and put the squishy foamy separators between her little toes and fingers. "Should we ask for some help from our assistant?"

You daughter gives you a cheeky grin and happily allows Kento to scoop her into his lap as she grabs at his chin. "Hold, still, angel."

When her manicure and pedicure is finally complete, just slightly smudged from all the wiggles, you wonder if you're missing just one more thing.

"I think Noodle wants a heart on your thumb too, Ken."

He smiles, "Then who am I to say no?"

----

The old man at the farmer's market notices two blue hearts, one on each of Kento's thumbs now, and he smiles as he recognizes the woman and the new little princess who must be responsible playing patty cake while Kento bags up his potatoes.

"Much obliged, Kento. Bless you three."

"Thank you, sir. We'll see you next time."

----

As time grows, the nail salon does too.

Now, Kento wears four little hearts in total on his hands for each blessing he created with you, and the one on his left thumb is eternally reserved for you.

You smile bittersweetly as your belly swelled for the final time in the summer as you watch all three of your little girls and Kento run around the yard, the butterfly pavers in the garden coated in freshly showered rain, popsicles in the freezer, and chalk on the pavement, savoring these moments the thief of time allows you while your babies are still young and Kento would still wear hearts on his thumbs.

Kento loves you from where he stands as he catches his breath while you watch from the porch, in the absence of words, the look he's preserved for you carries all the tenderness without ever saying: you're the rain to his sun, before he joins the girls for another round of kick the can.

A little thump reminds you that four hearts will turn into five on Kento's fingers as the budding garden of your home blooms by one more. The final constellation of the stars that line your soul.

And the love does, too.

[vaguely-concerned]

for what it's worth I personally don't believe spite had anything to do with the pantry near-kiss experience at all. I think that was a 100% lucanis naturel disaster no supernatural additives present or indeed required. at most spite was watching that whole situation go down with mild puzzlement about approximately every part of it, I don't think he'd have much interest in it one way or the other. the explanation seems much more mundane and grounded and in some ways much sadder to me.

if your nervous system has never been in a place where any surge of emotion, even -- in fact sometimes especially! -- a good and exciting one makes you feel like your soul just touched a hot stove it can't get away from, then sincerely, from the bottom of my heart and without a trace of snark, thank goodness and I hope you never experience it. For the rest of you... fistbump of solidarity it's rough out here but *grits teeth* we stay silly etc. In the place lucanis is in during that part of the game, feeling like you're losing control (again even for ostensibly good happy reasons) can feel an awful lot like you're dying, or worse. on top of everything else going on for him -- again going only with non-supernatural elements and not even comprehensive: a year of non-stop horrific trauma added to pile of previous mountain of childhood and attachment trauma. chronic sleep deprivation. apparently dead grandma doubling as mother figure. cousin-brother aggressively fucking around and in real danger of finding out. fucked up the ONE thing he thought he knew how to do that's been the central pillar of his identity. the world might be ending even more than it already was because of it. keeps faceplanting with barely any dignity and having to get up again with alarming regularity GOD how could I ever not save treviso this man desperately needs a W (just one!!) like few people in the history of the world have before him. he's more caffeine than man because the alternative feels worse. it's bad in here. and ON TOP of all that he's in the process of falling just. appallingly soul-shrivingly in love, which can notably be playing on hard mode even when you're in a mostly functional place, that shit routinely rocks people to the core under the best of circumstances.

so I'm not surprised it's too overwhelming for him to handle when he tries to throw himself in head first -- in fact I'd have been more surprised if it weren't lol. he clearly wants it so much, which only makes it so much more painful that he can't actually bear to touch it when it's offered to him freely and eagerly. this is the tantalus-level awfulness of this kind of attachment trauma; food seems to be right there, you can see it, almost smell it sometimes, but no matter what you just can't seem to reach it. seemingly not for any flaw in the existence of the food, but because of something broken in you that can't or can't bear to actually eat. his deliberate flirting routine is kind of deeply dorky tbh lol (in the most endearing way possible let's be perfectly clear) and I don't think it's entirely natural to him -- that's a hastily cobbled together 'oh god I am getting the vibes here it is happening for some reason they like me for my personality quick what would illario do' approach if ever I saw it, supported by the fact that it never really makes a return after this --

BUT I do think his obvious near-unbearable delight with rook's existence and person that shines through in that scene is entirely real and unfeigned. he likes them so much. he wants so bad to be able to be close to them. he's so hungry for the reprieve and release and relief they represent to him, just for one moment, just one break from all the awfulness to have something uncomplicatedly good. and it's here, it's been offered, he's welcome!!! and he has to flinch away at the last minute anyway because he's an exposed nerve of a human being. there's a point at which every sensation including joy becomes indistinguishable from agony. he's pretty much exactly at that point. for the love of god have some mercy on him people. the feeling that salvation is right here but you're too broken a vessel to hold it is one I wouldn't wish on anyone. let him have a few moments to stare into the void before he's ready to get back up and try again surely we all deserve at least that much lol

[prael]

Not Quite Home

Kinktember Day 15: Stand & Carry

Kepler Youngeun x male reader smut

words: 1,495 Kinktember Masterlist

She is everything you're not. Everything you hate. How can someone refuse to have a place to call home?

All this about being a free spirit and experiencing everything that the world has to offer all sounds well and good but how is a tree supposed to grow if it has no roots? But Youngeun insists that is exactly what she is after, the constant thrill, the constant novelty, the rush and urgency. In every interaction, she seems to have been in search of the next big adventure.

And you think you do her a disservice by not understanding.

Perhaps if you had met each other under other circumstances, things might have gone better for the two of you. But now, you resent how she feels like a stranger whenever you're together. She once brought an element of excitement and risk to a routine, drab life, but that grew exhausting and more than once made you feel like you were suffocating. You grew to loathe her carelessness.

"Your parents?" You ask as she stands in your bedroom for the third night in a row, "Have you even told them you're back in town?"

She shakes her head in lieu of an answer, "You know how they are."

"You're going to blame them for wanting their daughter to visit for once?"

Youngeun laughs. It's one of your least favourite traits—her incapability to take anything seriously. "Not your business. Besides, seven nights, remember?"

Yes. Seven nights. This is what she told you, another expiry date on another chapter of whatever the fuck this is between you. Another unspoken contract was signed for the hell of it. A time limit, for something that isn't even real.

"Just think about it," you continue, hopelessly, "talking with your family. It'll clear your mind."

"Know what clears my mind? The wind in my hair, sun on my skin, music in my ears," Youngeun runs her hand through her silky hair, "Landing in some new town, finding a new local hang out to try something exotic and then exploring whatever is hidden in that town's history, picking up a new person, hooking up with them, letting the excitement course through my veins, knowing there's always something else waiting on the horizon."

Another insufferable thing that she does. It's been maybe fifteen minutes since you tangled limbs in the bed and now she's standing across the room naked making no secret of the fact that she picks up guys and girls wherever she goes. Youngeun looks down at you on the mattress and runs her eyes up and down your body, her fingers resting lightly over her collarbone.

You follow the line of her fingers, nails cut short with traces of peeled black nail paint. A callus on her finger is a reminder of how often she played the guitar. She runs them down her chest, thumb catching a nipple in the process of doing so.

"Look at you. You get hotter every time I come back." And just like that, Youngeun drops a compliment, casual and effortless and you question who's benefiting from this relationship because it clearly isn't you.

You're gonna fuck her again tonight. Tomorrow too, and another three nights after that. After which she'll be gone for another six months to a year. There's a weird emotional emptiness to this routine—you give and she takes and this is all she asks.

"Come here, will you? Pin me to this wall already. Make me feel you." Her hand cups her breast and another traces its way down her abs, a clear intention.

You should hate her, really. Like how you hate the idea that she left home for no reason or how she wasted her potential, hate her for her indifference, for her recklessness and her cold detachment, or hate the fact that it's just meaningless sex. 

She doesn't like strings, it makes no sense to her how people commit. If she was the type of person who asked to be understood, you would probably try to, but that's never something she ever expressed. 

For all of that, you don't hate her. It's why you're still walking towards her and she's backing up into the wall.

So, what does she ask for? Her answer is pleasure and pain.

She kisses like a raging fire. Everywhere her hands roam leaves marks on your skin; she scratches deep in your back as you hook her thigh up around your waist. A hand between her legs, sliding in without any sort of preamble. She's still dripping wet, though some of that may well be your last load. She tastes of salty, sweaty sex and you relish it. She kisses and she gasps as your fingers work at her entrance; crooking them upward so you can press them into her and rub right against the sensitive spot inside her.

Her tongue slides past yours, hot and wet as she grinds up into your hand, claws digging into your lower back. Your hand fucks into her roughly with reckless abandon and her breathing gets shallow as your fingers bring her closer and closer.

It doesn't take long, she's close, you know that when she throws her head back against the wall. "Stop—wait, fuck—wait," Youngeun barely gasps and then with your name in her throat, the friction of your fingers sends her over the edge. A moan escapes as her mouth falls open, eyes clamp shut as you finger her to orgasm.

It's always been easy to make Youngeun cum, but it never loses its magic. There's something particularly thrilling to the way she moans your name in that honey-laced rasp, to the way her entire body arches upwards as the pleasure mounts. A sharp gasp cuts the air.

Her limbs slacken. She leans her head against the wall. She's struggling to catch her breath.

And this is the fucking problem. For every reason to hate her, there are so many more reasons to enjoy her.

That's when you lift her, hooking up the other thigh and holding her by her tight little ass. Youngeun hisses and she's staring daggers and that's always a part of the fun. She'll give you these looks that could kill a lesser man, but you know the only solution is to pound her into submission.

"Be rough with me. Hard," Youngeun pants, sucking air in, breath ragged. Her skin's hot to the touch.

"Like last time?" Your voice comes low, thick and gruff as you hook her legs higher.

"No, harder, faster," Youngeun replies between rapid, short breaths, she grips your arms, rolls her hips and wraps her body tighter around you, "Want me to stay? Fuck me until I can't walk out."

You're incensed and sliding your length over her slick, warm, inviting heat, before slamming her back into the wall, entering her in one long hard motion and enjoying the way her lips fall apart; enjoying the way her hot and messy, fucked-out body arches upward as you hit deeper and the way her cries pitch. You don't even wait for her to catch her breath before snapping your hips over and over and giving Youngeun exactly the type of pounding that she wants.

There's a sharp gasp. A second of silence and then a choked-back scream. You feel a palm on the nape of your neck and a sting on your shoulders as her nails dig deep and scratch. She rakes them over the broad expanse of your upper back and it fucking hurts. It fucking stings and it's delicious. You bury yourself deep inside her, stretch and fuck her all open on your dick.

"Like that. Yes! Like that! Fucking ruin me."

"Since you asked so nicely."

Her moans become a struggle now that you've run a hand roughly up her body and planted it around her neck. Squeezing, not too hard, not to cut her airflow, not to bruise, but firmly enough that she will feel it and feel that she is being held. She loves to feel hopeless. And there, that's what you like: her hot, sweaty body locked between you and the wall and helpless against you as you sink into her.

And as much as she says it doesn't mean anything. Youngeun cries out your name like it means something.

The ever-familiar suffocating grip of her wet cunt grips you as she cums again. Bodies flushed together, grinding and sweaty.

"I can't breathe—" Youngeun whimpers in that cracked, vulnerable and submissive way and you snarl. Fuck her up as promised. Hurt her like she begs for. And Youngeun loves it like nothing else, absolutely nothing, her eyes rolling to the back of her head and a strangled groan as you reach another climax and fill up her pussy again. You pound yet another load into her tight hole.

As much as she would hate to ever admit it, this is as close to a home as she has in her life.

[avelera]

Can we hear your thoughts on Jayce’s and Viktor’s intelligence? I can’t help but feel like Jayce is often…dumbed down. Which feels insulting to the both of them.

Rarrrr.... I should be doing other things... but this is a rage button issue for me... so....

Jayce is just as smart as Viktor.

The reason he doesn't come across as just as smart has multiple elements:

1 ) Arcane S1 in particular does a lot of sleight of hand to set up Jayce as facing down a corruption arc where he's tempted by fame and power. They achieve this in multiple ways. On an emotional level, they often zoom out for his more tender lines and zoom in when he says something dumb or unfortunate.

Intellectually, they tend to show things like his chalkboard after the fact, when he's not at it, but they show things like Viktor actively working in the lab quite a lot. Basically, we see Viktor doing a lot more active science stuff while he's doing it, but with Jayce we tend to see the effects of the science stuff he's already done, like presenting prototypes that are already made, him holding hexgems that are already created, showing equations and notes of his that are already complete instead of showing him making them.

Overall, this creates a visual impression that Jayce is the dumber of the two, because we see him doing less actively, but if you pay attention he's doing at least as much science as Viktor regularly, it's just more off-screen.

2 ) Viktor wouldn't partner with someone who's not as smart as him.

Viktor reroutes his entire life to work with Jayce after reading his notes on Hextech. It's insulting to Viktor's intelligence to think he would "lower himself" to working with Jayce. Jayce is his equal, his partner, they compliment each other and both accomplish things the other couldn't.

For my money, Viktor is the more out-of-the-box thinker, Jayce comes from a family of tool makers and he tends to think in straight lines, most of his innovations are direct results of the spells he saw his Mage do, like weightlessness and transportation, while Viktor tends to come up with things like the Hexclaw and the Hexcore.

But both are also craftsmen and tinkerers, and it was Jayce's idea originally to do magic with technology, Viktor is working with him to innovate on that vision.

3 ) Jayce is a better public speaker and he's physically attractive and muscular, in a way that makes people underestimate his intelligence. It is very common for people who are good at speaking, people who are of above average attractiveness and, god forbid, people who keep an exercise routine to be seen as less smart even though those things have nothing to do with one another. Because Jayce is seen as the "face" of Hextech it's assumed that he's the lesser intellectual partner, when the truth is, it's just a division of labor. Viktor is terrible at public speaking and doesn't like doing it, Jayce is charismatic so he does it.

He's not a gym jock, his muscles come from the forge where he makes absolutely mind-bogglingly advanced items like Caitlyn's sniper rifle and his own hammer, the guy is basically making Hadron Colliders over an anvil. But because people tend to judge based on appearances, people tend to think he's dumb.

4 ) Jayce thinks in straight lines. He's incredibly direct. The reason he agrees to raid the Shimmer Factory with Vi is because he's sick of politics and he's sick of the corruption, and he wants to just deal with a problem directly. That's why he and Vi bring out the worst in each other, because they both think like that, and straight lines aren't always the best way to tackle a difficult problem, but Jayce is a scientist, he's used to seeing a problem and just fucking solving it.

The problem is, that doesn't work for all problems. He's incredibly smart as an engineer, literally Ambessa can't even find a scientist in Piltover as good as him and Viktor, but he's not widely read. He's not a politician or a diplomat or a social scientist. This also lends to the perception that he's dumb but you'll notice, Viktor is never put in a position to make decisions like that, Mel is never put in lab to solve a scientific equation, and in general, most characters aren't put in a position where they have to perform at the top of more than one field in the way Jayce is, so yeah, Jayce ends up looking dumb because he has to handle being the leader of a city when he spent his life working on Hextech and promoting Hextech. Of course he's not going to be perfect.

But that's also another case of sleight of hand, we see Jayce failing at more things because we see him thrown in a position to impact more things. A lot of characters maintain their image of being smarter or more skilled than him because they're not asked to work outside their range of skills nearly so often.

[binniesbooks]

hi fayebae, heres the next one for hyuka! (Cos i just saw a clip of hyuka with his new black hair n in a black shirt, and its like cos now hyuka is buff buff, i was thinking mayb smth abt his chest? hyuka x reader!

basically reader is bffs with tubatu, but well hyuka has a crush on reader! reader has mentioned before that her type is men who exercises and have big titties(if u read my tyun pillow fic you would know what i mean🤭)

whenever reader is around tubatu, she will never fail to mention abt how tyuns chest is getting bigger and will joke abt how he should drop his workout routine. But hyuka didnt take it as a joke, so he actually asked tyun for help on building his titties. So after few mths of training, reader finally notices that hyuka’s titties are growing and that sends her on a conflicting journey, because shes never seen hyuka in that way before. But thanks to his titties now reader is looking in hyuka’s way…

trying to play it off cool and not freak out, reader jokes and asked whether hyuka’s builded chest was meant for her, and well hyuka told her the truth and agreed. which she was stunned(this is clearly inspired cos of that gym pic of hyuka n his chest ofc)

things escalated and well now reader is riding hyuka, hands on his big titties as support (smut: tittie play(reader sucks on hyukas nipples, hyuka does the same for reader, tittie fuck, hyuka asking reader to sit on his face , idk what else but please include as much as u want, these are just my ideas of ehat could happen hehe)

hopefully this is good🥺 love u my love💗(once again do this after ur yj fic if u want unless ure hit with inspiration again😭) i’ll come back soon, kith kith💋

• GAINS AND GLORY

HK 002 .F22 2024

wc 3.3k

pairings buff!hyuka x reader

warnings tits play (both ends receiving), multiple marking (scratching and hickeys), unprotected sex, creampie, manhandling (+ anything I've missed)

faye's note the asks be rotting on my inbox, I'm sorry omg 😭 but here it is, coz they're hunting me at my FYP AHAHAHA! Although I see Kai as a softie (the reason why I still incorporated fluff elements in this fic), I think I still love this one, omg! For tho who are waiting for Hyuka's fic, I present to you, Gains and Glory! Please enjoy! 🙂‍↕️

"How is that even possible? Are you cheating? You're most probably cheating!" You frowned after being beaten for the nth time by Taehyun in the game you're playing. Taehyun proceeded to flex both of his arms and laughed at you.

"I don't wanna play with you anymore!" you complained, "Kai! Come here, come play the game with me instead! I don't wanna play with Taehyun anymore!" You called for Kai and the youngest scrambled towards the couch you were sitting on.

"Give the controller to Hyuka, I hate you." You pouted at Taehyun. Taehyun handed the controller to Hyuka and he attacked you with tickles.

"Soobin! Can you grab this man? Wait -- wait!" He was tickling you so much and you were thrashing around causing him to flex his muscles.

You have been friends with the five of them. Despite their very busy schedule, they always find time to at least spend a day with you. Or even a week if their schedules were a bit loose. Every weekend, you would find yourself in their dorm. Laughing, eating, playing, sleeping. Name anything that friends do, and you're sure you would have done it with them.

They never complained about having you around, if anything, they were thankful because, at least once a week, they could refresh their mind and unwind. And your favorite time? It was when you and Soobin baked cookies together. When you and Yeonjun stroll the streets to take some Instagrammable pictures. When you and Beomgyu spent time quietly - which was ironic because you two are the loudest when together - with arts; either painting or drawing. When you and Taehyun would watch exercise videos together, obviously with him exercising while you laze around, sprawled on the couch. And when you and Kai were together, you guys would end up shopping for plushies even though he had millions of them already.

Other people tend to look at you with judging eyes. They even talked about how you were giving the 'pick-me-girl vibe' which you and the guys often laughed about. You were their friend even before they debuted and your mind never wandered beyond being anything more than friends with them -- or so you thought, yeah.

"Back from the gym again?" You felt a presence behind you while you were cooking dinner. You didn't have to turn around to know who it was. The scent was enough for you to decipher who it was. The fresh soapy scent - because after his gym sessions, he would take a bath before coming home, and the mild smell of the mist he was using, you knew it was totally Taehyun.

"You know us so well that you can now tell who it is just by our scent huh." His head pops on your shoulder as he brushes his cheeks on yours, emitting a soft chuckle from you. "Tae, you're not beating the cat allegations again." "Hmm, don't care." He shrugs as he gives you a back hug. "Welcome back home, by the way," you answered.

Hugging them was the most intimate interaction you had with the guys. But the hugs were never sensual at all. They always just felt safe and at home whenever they melt in your embrace. They could feel all their stress and tension disappear just with a simple hug from you

Kai was humming while hugging his plushies when he stepped in the kitchen and saw you and Taehyun hugging. "Guys! Taehyun is hogging y/n to himself! It's not even hug time yeeeetttt!" Kai yelled causing every door in the house to burst open with resounding complains. "Hey, that's not fair!" Beomgyu pouts as he crosses his arms. "It's not hug time yet! This is so unfair!" Yeonjun tried to pry Taehyun's arms off you. "Y/n, stop hugging Taehyun before I throw your things out of our dorm." Soobin was pouting at you as he stomped his feet.

"Okay okay! I'll do it later then!" You laughed as you stopped hugging Taehyun and Yeonjun pulled him away from you. Taehyun even complained that he was just too tired from his gym session and needed a hug, only to be met with a plush that Kai threw.

"Dinner's not ready yet?" Kai sat on the chair not far from you cooking. "Almost done, Kai, go prepare the plates," you smiled.

Soobin and Beomgyu were the ones who were scheduled to wash the dishes. You thought that they shouldn't be scheduled at the same time because the soaps and bubbles would be spilling everywhere due to their bickering and playfulness. Kai, Taehyun, and Yeonjun were sitting on the couch with you, busy watching the TV, with Taehyun and Yeonjun being topless.

You were too used to the guys being half-naked around you. It was like a norm for you to be around so there was no use in making a fuss about it. They often remove their tops just because. Yup, no reason at all, they just do it.

You turned your head towards Taehyun, "You're working on your chest, aren't you?" you asked, noticing how big Taehyun's chest was and how they often looked bigger whenever he wore a tight-fitted shirt, which he nodded. "Are you finally coming to your senses and making a move on me just because I told you how I love men with big tiddies?"You teased and laughed heartily as he looked at you with the same disgusted expression he maintained throughout his life.

"Y/n, you know I love you and know how much I value our friendship, but if you want to keep being welcome here, please avoid saying things like that." And Yeonjun burst out laughing at Taehyun's answer. "You! My goodness!" you just rolled your eyes while still laughing.

"Why not drop your exercise routine? So Yeonjun can start working on his flat--" You were cut off with a pillow being thrown at you. "Yah! My chest is buffed too! They're not flat!" Yeonjun yelled at you.

Unknown to your eyes, Kai's ear perked up, and hugged himself as he felt his own body subtly. He looked over to Taehyun's chest and back to his own chest. He stayed silent, as he watched you guys.

"Hug time!" Kai yelled when the clock struck 10, and all of them gathered around you, lining up as they patiently waited for their turn. "Are you going to stay the night?" Yeonjun asked while taking his time hugging you. "Will do, I want to cook breakfast for you guys before your busy schedule starts again," you answered, he pulled away and mouthed goodnight and Soobin almost shoved him out of the way.

"I want some pancakes for breakfast," Soobin silently whispered as he hugged you tightly, almost covering you with his big frame. "Of course whatever you want, Binnie."

"Goodnight y/n, please rest well too." Beomgyu shortly commented as he hugged you and you hummed back.

"I love you but I think I should start hating you." Taehyun's disgusted look never faltered and you just pinched his cheeks while laughing.

All the other four were already heading to their rooms but Kai was still standing in front of you. You opened your arms for him as he slowly walked towards you, tightly clutching his plush in hand.

"What's wrong?" you asked as you sat up straight. Kai plopped down beside you and melted in your arms as he hid his flushed face which was unknown to you, into the crook of your neck. "Goodnight y/n," he simply whispered. "Sleep tight, Kai, I arranged your plushies earlier," you said as he stood up and walked towards his bedroom.

The next day, you wake up early to cook breakfast for them before they start their busy week again.

"We'll be busy with our upcoming comeback again," Soobin sighed as he poked the pancakes on his plate.

"Cheer up guys, you know I'll be here when your schedule is done." You tried to cheer them up and forced them to finish their breakfast before leaving.

4 months. For four months they were so busy that they weren't able to spend a day with you.

When you went back to their dorm, two guys were missing in action. "Where are the others?" you asked as you removed your shoes. All three heads snapped to where the voice had come from, only to find out that it was you.

"Y/n!" They all screamed almost in unison, as they rushed over to you, dropping everything they were currently doing.

You took a nap that afternoon while waiting for the other two to come back when you woke up to the unfamiliar yet familiar scent. Your eyes roamed around, and Kai and Taehyun caught your eyes. It seemed like they had just taken a bath a little while ago, given that their hair was still damp.

Kai noticed that you had just woken up so he cramped his big body lying down beside you on the couch. You chuckled and tried to push him away but he didn't budge.

When he sat up, you noticed how his shirt was sticking against his chest. "Wait a minute, I was only gone for a couple of months... What is this?" you questioned as you poked Kai's chest. Kai felt embarrassed to answer and scooted over to Taehyun. Taehyun answered for him instead, "He's been going to the gym with me. I don't know what has gotten into him though?"

You were in awe. Taehyun's chest was big but it looked like Kai's chest now was bigger. Especially considering that he had a bigger frame than Taehyun. In the past, Kai was so adamant about not going to the gym, he preferred cuddling with his plushies, telling the other guys that having a baby belly was cute, just like his soft plushies. But as you look at him more, it looks like he isn't the baby you used to know anymore, he has become buff. And only within just a few months at that.

That night, you were awfully silent. Your eyes kept on wandering back to Kai's chest, subtly, not wanting to be caught. Your mind couldn't help but wonder the reason behind Kai's new buffed-up body.

That same night, all of them went to bed earlier than usual. They just wanted to sleep longer. They claimed that their bed had missed them because, for four months, they weren't able to be in their dorm, nor sleep in their own rooms.

You, on the other hand, couldn't fall asleep. Suddenly the guest room felt so big and empty. You didn't know why but you kept on tossing and turning. At that moment, you heard footsteps that stopped right in front of your door. You immediately sat up, waiting for a knock on the door. Which it did. Someone had knocked thrice before pushing your door open. Only then did you realize that you probably forgot to lock it because you were spacing out too much.

The dim light from the hallway shone through the slightly opened door. "Hey, why are you still awake? Can't sleep?" You asked. He closed and locked the door behind him, the room now too dark for anything to be seen. He walked towards the window slightly opening the window, allowing a bluish-yellow light coming from the moon to penetrate throughout your room.

The bed dipped down at his weight, and he crawled up to you, burying his face in your neck, his body now, almost on top of you. "I...I missed you." He whispered, as he tightly hugged you.

"Kai..." You felt how his heart thumped harder the longer he hugged you. This was new. No one ever did this to you, not even when Yeonjun was sick when Soobin got his first breakup, when Beomgyu failed to win the art contest, and even when Taehyun wasn't allowed by their manager to flash his abs at their show. Kai's hug and whisper felt different. As if he was longing for something else.

"I missed you too, you surprised me." You answered when he pulled away. Only then did you finally see him, he wasn't wearing his shirt. You've never seen him topless before. But now he was, and he was right in front of you.

Maybe it was the heat of the moment, but your finger landed on his chest, gently tracing his buffed chest. "Did you, by chance, do this for me? Because you heard I want men with big tiddies?" you joked. But you were stunned when he nodded. "I actually d-did in fact do this for you, I wanted to surprise you since it's b-been four months since I last saw y-you," his voice was shaky as he spoke.

"I-i've been wanting to tell you this y/n, but I just couldn't bring myself to s-say it. Not until now." Kai's face was so close to yours that you could inhale his minty breaths.

You wanted to push him, but putting both of your hands on his chest felt like it might be crossing a line. You felt how hot his body was. The warmth of his body, radiating through his skin, felt electrifying to you.

"I know it's weird... But I couldn't help but have a little crush on you," he carefully whispered as if someone else was in the room to hear it. "One chance y/n, please give me one chance." His forehead now resting against yours, his eyes were filled with longing. The room was so thick with silence that you could hear him gulp.

"Y-you're lucky I'm into big g-guys like you," you squeaked, and your heart swelled at how a bright smile had crept onto his lips.

He placed his hand over yours, which was resting on his chest, and guided you to squeeze it. His soft strangled whimper sent a shiver down your spine.

The wind blew making the curtains on the window flutter and the hair on the back of Kai's neck to stand up. He finally propped himself with his two hands supporting his body as he leaned in closer to you. You ran your fingers to his perked-up nipples and your eyes watched closely at how he bit his lips and how his eyes fluttered.

"You're brave. Coming to this room without a shirt on, and confessing your love." You commented as you roll his nipples between your fingers. He gripped onto your sheets as you chuckled at how he was holding his moans back.

"We're downstairs, you can let out your moans. They won't be able to hear it." Your taunt got him opening his mouth as he let out all those muffled moans he had been holding back. His body trembled at your touch.

You slowly push him down as he keeps on backing up. You finally pushed him to lie down when his head could no longer lie on the bed. His head was now hanging off the edge, and it was making him dizzy with how his blood was rushing to his head while you were licking his nipple.

"Fuck!" He whimpered when you subtly bit his nipple. "Y/n..." He holds the back of your head as you continued sucking. His toes curled at your tongue, rolling and swirling around his nipple.

"To be honest, I've been thinking what could've been your reason for this, but turns out it was all because of me," you chuckled as you kissed the tip of his nose.

Your touch felt like fire over his body. His stomach swirling, his mind blurry. He never thought you'd give in to him.

You dipped your head down again as you littered his chest with splotchy red marks. Leaving some near his nipples, on his shoulder, and on his neck. Kai was a moaning mess under you as he kept on trying to hold his head up, but was always failing. His moans and the rustling of the sheets filled the room.

Since he was being discreet with his moans, you decided to catch him off guard and grind on him. His moans became high pitched and more slutty. You chuckled, the cute guy you often care about was now a totally different guy underneath you.

You felt a wet patch on his sweats, "Did you just come?", you asked as you pulled away. "D-don't look!" Kai tried to stop you but it was too late. You ran your fingers on the wet bulge of his pants. "Kai, you're naughty," you commented, and he only answered with a whimper.

He sat down and pushed you down, to hover above you. "Not fair," he pouted and lifted your shirt over your chest.

"Kai, I swear if you do what I di-" you weren't able to finish your sentence. His mouth was now on your boobs, sucking on your nipples, rolling his tongue again and again. "K-kai.. Kai..." Your breathing was unstable as you squirmed, and you kept on chanting his name along with whines and whimpers.

Just like how you did for him, he also littered your chest, neck, and shoulder with love bites, he was now smiling at how they looked under the moonlight from the window.

"Pretty," he smiled and crashed his lips over yours. The kiss was hot. It wasn't sloppy but it felt eager.

Kai pulled back, sat down and pulled you onto his lap. Your left hand was on your back as he held it with his left hand. You couldn't move, you could only clutch on his hair with your free hand, and nothing else. His right hand was rubbing your clothed ass, lifting the skirt to play with your skin.

"I'm sure hug time w-was n-never like this, fuck," you pulled him closer as your nails dug into his bare back. Kai winced at the scratching pain on his back as you drag your nails down. He kept on feasting over your neck and played with your ass, continuously brushing his fingers on your skin.

When you started grinding again, you squealed when you felt a stinging pleasure on your ass, his hand probably left a mark on your skin. His big hard chest was pressing against yours. They felt hard and soft at the same time. You wanted to play with his nipples but with your position, you couldn't do anything.

He pulled his sweats down to his thighs and slipped inside you with ease. You're too wet for him.

"Wow, you're taking me whole, y/n." Kai was big, you felt him stretch you out, but you were too wet that he could just slip into you with so much ease.

"F-fuck I feel s-so full," you can feel him arranging your guts with his huge cock. You can't help but move your hips wanting to immediately feel the pleasurable feeling of his cock inside you.

"P-pull out okay? I'm n-not on any birth control, you j-just slid i-in w-without a condom," you added. "Sorry, I got t-too excited. Your pussy feels so warm and soft. Makes me wanna cum inside you."

"K-kai!" You warned him, he only chuckled at you.

He started to thrust slowly, while you were still trapped in the position he put you into.

His slow thrust becomes more sloppy as you keep on moaning into his ears. Your moans kept stirring something in him, it made him wanna cum inside you even more.

"K-kai please, I'm c-close." You whined as you scratched his back.

"W-wanna cum inside you, y/n. Wanna cum s-so bad." His thrusts get stronger which made your boobs bounce which caused them to brush against his nipples, making him more aroused.

Maybe you were just too drunk on his cock that you unconsciously nodded at him and chanted 'yes' multiple times.

"I'm g-gonna cum!" you squeaked as you tangled your fingers in his hair. You felt a warm liquid being spilled inside you the moment you came as Kai pants with you. His forehead now resting on your shoulders with his mouth open. You wanted to complain that he came inside even when you told him not to, but it just felt so good that you chose to collapse onto his arms instead.

@binniesbooks 2024

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

For the Both of Us

Where Y/N trains for a marathon with Harry, but an injury leaves her waiting for him at the finish line.

Word Count: 2,493

Content Warning: mentions of injury

It starts as an offhand comment, something I don’t fully think through before saying it.

“We should run a marathon.”

Harry doesn’t even blink. “Alright.”

I pause mid-bite of my sandwich, glancing up at him from across the kitchen island. “Just like that?”

He shrugs, casually tying his hair up as he leans against the counter. “Why not?”

I squint at him. “No questions? No protests? No ‘that sounds miserable, why would we do that to ourselves’?”

He grins. “I like running.”

Of course, he does.

I narrow my eyes, setting my sandwich down. “I thought this was going to be one of those things where I had to convince you, and then you’d be all dramatic about it.”

Harry smirks. “Sorry to disappoint.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”

Still, there’s no backing out now. And if I’m being honest, I don’t want to.

Training in New York happens because we’re here, and it makes sense. Early mornings in Central Park, the world just waking up as we weave through runners, cyclists, and dogs too eager for their own good. The air is crisp, the pavement familiar under our feet, and for once, I don’t hate running as much as I thought I would. Maybe it’s the routine of it, the way my body adjusts to the movement, or maybe it’s just Harry, a few strides ahead, turning back every now and then with an easy grin like this is the most natural thing in the world.

“You alright back there?” he calls over his shoulder.

“Shut up,” I pant, pushing forward.

He laughs, slowing just enough to match my pace. “You’re getting better.”

“I’m dying.”

“No, you’re not.” He bumps his arm against mine. “One day, you’re gonna love this.”

I glare at him, sweat dripping down my back. “Doubt it.”

But then we go to Italy, and everything shifts.

We run because we’re already there, because it feels right, because some part of me—some stubborn, determined part—wants to prove him right. The streets are quieter in the early morning, the sun just starting to stretch across the sky as we move through small villages and winding hillsides. It’s different here, softer somehow. The air is warm, carrying the scent of citrus and fresh bread from the bakeries just opening up for the day. There’s no urgency, no dodging commuters or stopping at crosswalks, just open road and the steady rhythm of our feet against the earth.

Harry doesn’t speak much when he runs, but I can tell he’s in his element, moving effortlessly like he was made for this. I watch the way his shoulders stay relaxed, the way he breathes in even counts, the way he looks completely at ease, and for the first time, I get it.

At some point, I stop thinking about how much I want to stop and start thinking about how much I want to keep going.

And when Harry turns his head, catching my eye with a knowing smile, I realize he knew this would happen all along.

One evening, long after the sun has set and the warmth of the Italian day has settled into something softer, we sit on the terrace of our rental, sipping wine and watching the lights flicker in the distance. My legs ache, but it’s a good kind of ache, the kind that reminds me of everything we’ve done today, of the miles we’ve put behind us.

Harry stretches his legs out, rolling his shoulders before turning his head toward me. “We should do Tokyo.”

I blink at him, processing. “Do Tokyo?”

“The marathon.” He tilts his glass, watching the wine swirl before looking back at me. “We’ve done all this training. Might as well put it toward something.”

I scoff, shaking my head. “You said that way too casually.”

He grins. “Because I already decided.”

I arch a brow. “You already decided?”

“Mhm.” He takes another sip. “Figured if we’re gonna do a marathon, might as well make a trip out of it. Stay for a bit, sightsee. The weather will be nice.”

I narrow my eyes at him, suspicious. “And when, exactly, did you decide all this?”

A lazy shrug. “Somewhere between mile six and seven today.”

I groan, letting my head fall back against my chair. “I knew that second wind of yours was dangerous.”

Harry laughs, nudging my foot under the table. “Come on, you have to admit it’s a good idea.”

I lift my head, watching him. He’s relaxed, loose-limbed and comfortable in the way he always is when he’s made up his mind. And the worst part? He’s right. It is a good idea.

I sigh, feigning reluctance. “I can’t believe you’re using my own tactics against me.”

His smile grows. “So that’s a yes?”

I shake my head, unable to stop my own grin. “That’s a yes.”

He clinks his glass against mine. “Good. Because I already started looking at flights.”

The decision is made, and just like that, Tokyo becomes the destination, the marathon the reason—but not the only one. Training continues, days blending together with long runs, ice baths, and Harry reminding me that we actually signed up for this.

The trip comes quickly, faster than I expect, and before I know it, we’re stepping off a plane into the crisp Tokyo air, the city sprawling out before us in endless color and movement. It’s different from anywhere we’ve been—bright, electric, alive in a way that feels both overwhelming and exhilarating.

We settle in easily, our days leading up to the marathon filled with late-night ramen stops, temple visits, and walks through neighborhoods that feel like they belong in a different time. Harry’s the one who insists on going to every convenience store we pass, fascinated by the rows of neatly packaged snacks and drinks. I let him, if only because it means I get to watch the way his face lights up every time he finds something new.

“Are you ever gonna eat the food you actually buy,” I tease one night, watching him place yet another snack onto our growing pile.

He grins, unapologetic. “Eventually. Maybe.”

I shake my head, shoving a bag of matcha-flavored candy at him. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, tossing a Pocky stick into his mouth, “you love me.”

I don’t dignify that with a response, but the corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.

The night before the race, we sit on the floor of our hotel room, stretching out our legs and pretending not to be nervous. Harry leans back on his hands, rolling out his ankles. “You ready?”

I exhale, pressing my palms against my thighs. “I think so.”

He watches me for a beat, then nudges my knee with his. “You’re gonna do great.”

I glance at him. “You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.” His voice is steady, certain. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Something in my chest tightens, but I push past it, knocking my foot against his. “Don’t go leaving me in the dust tomorrow.”

He smirks. “I’d never.”

It’s a lie. He absolutely would.

But for now, I let myself believe him.

The morning of the marathon comes quietly, the city still stretching awake as we make our way to the starting line. The air is crisp, the kind of cool that settles into your lungs without biting. There’s an energy around us, a nervous hum of anticipation that thrums through the thousands of runners gathered, their breath visible in the morning chill.

Harry stands beside me, bouncing on the balls of his feet, loose and ready. He looks completely at ease, like this is just another run, another morning, another challenge he already knows he’ll conquer.

“Last chance to back out,” he teases, tugging lightly on the sleeve of my jacket.

I scoff, shaking out my arms. “Not a chance.”

His grin is wide, proud. “That’s my girl.”

And then the countdown begins, the crowd buzzing, the excitement thick in the air.

Three.

I exhale, steadying my breath.

Two.

Harry shifts beside me, the warmth of him grounding me.

One.

The horn blares, and we run.

Tokyo unfolds around us, the streets lined with spectators, their cheers blending into the steady rhythm of our feet against the pavement. It’s overwhelming and exhilarating all at once, the city alive with movement, the energy unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

Harry stays beside me, keeping pace with effortless ease, checking in with a quick glance, a subtle nod. I feel good, strong even, my body moving in sync with the course, my mind focused.

We pass temples and skyscrapers, bridges stretching over quiet rivers, the neon of Shibuya just a distant blur. The kilometers tick by, each one a small victory, each step bringing us closer to the finish.

And then—

It happens fast.

A misstep, a shift in the pavement, the sudden, sharp twist of my ankle. Pain shoots up my leg, white-hot and immediate, and before I can fully process it, I stumble forward, catching myself just before I hit the ground.

“Shit.”

Harry is there instantly, his hand on my arm, steady, solid. “What happened?”

I clench my jaw, testing my weight. It’s bad.

“I—” I try to step forward and nearly collapse. “—I think I’m done.”

Harry’s face darkens, his grip tightening. “Okay, let’s—”

“No.” I shake my head, inhaling sharply. “You have to keep going.”

His brows furrow, his jaw tightening. “I’m not leaving you here.”

I look at him, my chest rising and falling too fast. “Harry.” My voice softens, pleading. “You have to finish. For me.”

He hesitates, his lips pressing into a thin line.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get to the medical tent, but you need to keep going.” I force a smile, swallowing against the frustration rising in my throat. “You trained too hard for this. You need to finish.”

His jaw clenches, his eyes scanning my face, searching for any reason to stay.

“Please,” I whisper.

A beat. A breath. And then he exhales, nodding once.

“Alright.”

He hesitates for just a second longer before reaching out, cupping the side of my face briefly, his thumb brushing against my cheek. “Don’t move too much, yeah?”

I nod, watching as he pulls away, glancing back one last time before taking off down the course.

A volunteer helps me over to the medical tent, their voice calm as they ask me basic questions—where it hurts, how it happened, if I can still move my foot. I answer automatically, my focus still on the course, my heart still pounding from the rush of adrenaline and frustration.

The tent is efficient, a blur of movement as runners come in and out, quick assessments, ice packs, stretches, taped-up ankles. One of the medics kneels in front of me, carefully rotating my foot as I wince.

“Doesn’t seem broken,” they say, pressing gently along the side of my ankle. “Probably a bad sprain. You’ll need to rest it for a while.”

I nod, barely processing their words as they wrap it up and hand me an ice pack. “Can I still walk on it?”

“Carefully. But you shouldn’t put too much pressure on it.”

I exhale, shifting in my seat. My race is over, but Harry’s isn’t. I glance toward the tent’s entrance, the noise of the marathon still pulsing just beyond it.

“Do you need to call someone?” the medic asks.

I shake my head, gripping the ice pack tighter. “No.”

Because I already know where I need to be.

I thank them quickly, carefully testing my weight before hobbling out of the tent, determination burning through the dull ache in my ankle. I won’t make it to the finish line in time to see him cross, but I’ll be there when he does.

Because if I can’t run this race, I can still be waiting for him at the end.

The journey to the finish line is slow, each step sending a dull ache up my ankle, but I push forward anyway. The marathon course winds through the city, but I take a more direct route, slipping through gaps in the crowd, careful not to put too much weight on my injured foot. My heart beats faster—not from exertion, but from anticipation.

By the time I reach the finish area, the air is thick with celebration. Runners stumble past the line, gasping for breath, clinging to each other in exhausted relief. The crowd swells with applause, cheers rising and falling like waves. I scan the finishers, my gaze moving quickly, searching.

And then I see him.

Harry moves through the last stretch, his strides steady despite the exhaustion weighing on his frame. His curls cling damply to his forehead, his arms pump with one final push, and when he crosses the finish line, his head drops forward, chest heaving as he slows to a stop.

A volunteer approaches, draping a medal over his neck, but he barely reacts. His hands find his hips, his head lifting as he drags in a deep breath—then, as if pulled by something unseen, his gaze shifts, scanning the crowd.

Looking for me.

I don’t move, don’t call his name. I just wait.

His eyes flick from face to face until they land on mine, and the moment they do, his entire body exhales. He doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward me with purpose, stepping around other runners, dodging spectators without so much as a glance. When he reaches me, his hands find my face before I can say a word, his palms warm and firm, thumbs brushing just beneath my cheekbones. His breathing is still uneven, but his voice is steady when he speaks.

“Are you okay?”

I nod, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. “Yeah.”

His gaze drops to my wrapped ankle, his brows knitting together. “You shouldn’t be standing.”

I huff a soft laugh. “I had to be here.”

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know,” I admit, and it’s quiet, because I know how much he means it.

He lingers, his fingers curling slightly at my jaw like he’s anchoring himself to me. His touch is careful, like he’s making sure I’m real, like he’s still coming down from the high of the race and the low of worry.

Neither of us speaks for a long moment, the noise of the world muffled around us. Then, finally, his lips twitch—not quite a smile, but something softer.

“So…” he murmurs, voice teasing but tired. “Do I get to pick our next stupid challenge?”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help the smile that slips through. “Not a chance.”

His chest shakes with a quiet laugh, and though his hands drop from my face, his fingers brush against mine before he steps back.

And even though I didn’t cross the finish line, I don’t feel like I lost.

Because I was here.

[gwens-love]

Haunted by Love

<-Part 3~

Summary: You, Rio, and Agatha have found peace and closeness, settling into a loving routine. The house feels like home, and your bond has deepened into something real and lasting.

Warnings: fluff (nothing else normally)

Word count: 3k

~Agathario x fem!reader~

Please don’t copy/steal or translate this work thanks

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

A few weeks later, the morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You’re the first to wake, tucked snugly between Rio and Agatha. Rio’s head rests on your shoulder, her hair a mess, strands tangled from a night of restless dreams. Agatha is at your back, her breath slow and steady. It’s a peaceful moment, the kind you never imagined you’d have.

You smile, your fingers tracing the white-gray streak in Agatha’s hair. It catches the light in a silver gleam, a mark of her ghostly nature that somehow feels all too real now. She stirs but doesn’t wake, and you can’t help but feel a surge of affection for her. She teases relentlessly, but beneath that, you’ve come to know her softer side, the side that only appears when she thinks no one’s looking.

As if on cue, Agatha’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours. There’s a flicker of something gentle there before she smirks.

“Staring at me already? Obsessed much?” she quips, though her voice is hushed with sleep.

You roll your eyes playfully. “Just appreciating the view.”

Rio mumbles in her sleep, curling closer to you. Agatha’s smirk softens into something almost tender as she watches the witch nuzzle into you.

“Good morning,” Rio murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

Agatha leans closer, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, “We should make this a habit, don’t you think?”

You nod, the thought filling you with warmth. “I think we already have.”

The three of you spend the early hours of the morning in bed, talking and laughing, tangled in each other’s limbs until hunger finally drives you out. It feels natural, the way the three of you move around each other in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. You can’t help but think of how different things are now. The house doesn’t feel haunted anymore. It feels like home.

After breakfast, Rio looks out the window, her gaze thoughtful. “I’ve been thinking,” she starts, turning back to you and Agatha. “We should plant a little herb garden. I’ve missed having fresh herbs.”

Agatha’s eyes light up. “Oh, yes. It’ll be nice to put you to work, y/n.”

You laugh. “I don’t mind. It sounds like fun.”

The three of you spend the rest of the morning outside, clearing a small patch of earth near the edge of the forest. Rio is in her element, explaining the different herbs she wants to plant. Agatha kneels beside her, surprisingly helpful, though she makes a point to complain about getting dirt under her nails.

“You’re the one who suggested this,” you remind her, planting a small rosemary bush.

“Yes, well,” she huffs, brushing her hair back, “I didn’t think it would involve actual labor.”

Rio laughs, and the sound is like music. “You’re doing great, Agatha.”

Agatha shoots her a mock glare, but there’s a fondness in her expression that she doesn’t bother to hide.

The garden comes together slowly but surely. You plant lavender, rosemary, mint, and sage, all of Rio’s favorites. The air is filled with the fresh, earthy scent of soil and herbs, and you can see the joy in Rio’s eyes as she carefully places each seedling.

“It’s perfect,” she says softly, standing back to admire your work.

Agatha sidles up beside you, nudging your shoulder with hers. “You did good, y/n. Who knew you had a green thumb?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, shut up.”

She grins and leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Make me.”

It’s peaceful, standing there with them in the garden. The sun is casting the yard in a golden glow. You lean into Agatha’s side, feeling Rio’s hand slip into yours on the other side. The house looms behind you, but it doesn’t feel cold or intimidating anymore. It feels alive, like it’s part of your little family now.

“I can’t believe this is real,” you whisper.

Rio squeezes your hand. “It is. We made it real.”

Agatha’s voice is softer than usual. “It’s ours now. All of it.”

The three of you head inside as the chill of the afternoon sets in. You curl up together on the couch, wrapped in a cozy blanket. Agatha picks up a book and starts reading aloud, her voice filling the quiet room. Rio rests her head on your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut, a content smile on her lips.

You can feel Agatha’s fingers tracing idle patterns on your arm as she reads. Her teasing is absent, replaced by something softer, something that makes your heart swell. It’s a perfect moment, one you want to capture and hold forever.

You exchange a glance with Rio, who looks up at you with sleepy, adoring eyes. “This is home,” she murmurs.

Agatha pauses in her reading, looking up with a small smile. “Yes, it is.”

And it really is. It’s not just the house, it’s the three of you together, the laughter, the teasing, the love you’ve built. It’s the way Agatha’s former ghostly chill feels comforting now, the way Rio’s magic fills the air with warmth. It’s the way you’ve found a place where you belong, where you’re loved, where you’re home.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The next hours were slow, but peaceful. The house hummed with quiet activity, the air thick with the scent of the earth and freshly planted herbs. Rio and Agatha had been bustling around, going back to the garden to tidy up and chat about mundane things, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more, something unspoken lingering between the three of you.

It was in the way Agatha’s gaze softened every time it met yours, the way Rio’s hands brushed against you with purpose, as though reminding you both of the quiet connection that bound you all. The spell that had once felt like a chain had become a bridge, something far more intimate, more real than you could have ever expected.

You wandered into the living room, absentmindedly glancing out the window at the garden, but you were pulled back to the room by the soft sound of Agatha’s voice.

“Are you okay?” she asked, stepping closer, her presence palpable in the quiet room.

You nodded, trying to shake off the thoughts that had been swirling in your mind. “Yeah, just… thinking.”

Agatha’s eyes twinkled with a mixture of affection and curiosity. She had always known when something was off, even without the magic tying you together. But now? It felt like she could sense your very thoughts.

“You know,” Agatha started, crossing the room to stand beside you, “I can’t help but notice that things have been different lately. Between us. I can feel it.” You hesitated, glancing over at her. “Different how?”

Agatha smirked, but there was a softness to her expression. “Not bad different. Just… deeper. You’re always in my thoughts now, more than ever before. And I know it’s the same for you.”

Her words felt like a quiet confession, something intimate and raw. She was rarely so direct, rarely so vulnerable. But the bond you now shared made it easier to read each other’s emotions, to feel what was unsaid.

Before you could respond, Rio appeared in the doorway, her gaze sweeping over the two of you with a knowing smile. She had always had a way of sensing when moments were shifting. She made her way over to you both, standing close enough for her warmth to reach you.

“What’s this? A moment I’m not included in?” Rio teased lightly, but there was a fondness in her tone, a reminder of how much the three of you had become intertwined.

Agatha rolled her eyes playfully. “You’re always included, Rio. But we were just talking about how things are… different.” She turned her attention back to you, her eyes soft and understanding. “How things have changed between the three of us. We don’t need words anymore, do we?”

You shook your head, feeling the truth of her words settle deep in your chest. “No. We don’t.” It was strange, how much you could communicate now without saying anything. Every touch, every glance, carried so much weight. The bond that had formed wasn’t just magic; it was a true connection, something that ran deeper than any spell.

Rio nodded thoughtfully, her hand finding your shoulder in a gentle, reassuring gesture. “It’s like we’ve all become so attuned to each other. It’s not just about what we feel together, but what we feel for each other, right?”

You could feel the warmth of her words wrapping around you like a blanket. You nodded, the unspoken understanding passing between the three of you like a silent pact. It was as if your hearts had always been connected, and now, it was just more obvious, more real.

“We’re stronger than we were before,” Agatha whispered, her voice low but full of certainty. “Together.”

It was true. In this house, with the garden you’d planted, and with each passing day, you were all building something new, something beautiful. The weight of the spell no longer felt heavy. It felt like the foundation of a life you never thought you’d have, but had now found in each other.

Rio gave a soft sigh, a contented smile curling at her lips. “I think this is what home feels like.”

Agatha reached for your hand, her fingers lightly brushing over yours. You could feel the pulse of her emotions, the warmth of her affection. “Home,” she echoed. “With all of us here, together.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you finally felt at peace.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the warmth of the evening crept through the house like a quiet whisper. The air felt thick with peace, a calm that seemed to have settled into every corner of the space since Agatha had returned. You had spent the rest of the afternoon tidying up, setting up a few things for the new life you were beginning together. There was an undeniable sense of comfort now, a sense that this place was truly home.

Agatha stood near the window, looking out at the world beyond with a thoughtful expression on her face. Her usual teasing grin softened as she gazed out at the twilight. She was here, not as a fleeting ghost, but as a permanent presence. And while she would always be that enchanting, teasing, mischievous spirit who loved to push buttons, there was no denying the softness she had shown since her return.

Her eyes caught yours as you moved across the room. You couldn’t help but smile. She was home, and so were you.

“You know,” Agatha spoke suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, “I can’t believe we did this. Planting herbs for Rio… You sure this isn’t too domestic for you?”

You chuckled, walking over to her. “I don’t mind. I think it’s cute.”

Rio, who had been quietly watching the exchange, leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, her brown hair catching the last of the daylight. Her eyes sparkled with amusement, but there was a warmth in her gaze, the kind that came only after months of shared history and trust. “Cute, huh?” she mused. “Well, I guess because it’s coming from you. I can let it slide.”

You approached her, offering a teasing smile. “You know you love it. We’re creating a little oasis out there, what’s not to love about that?”

Rio smirked, but there was no denying the way her posture softened whenever you were near. She let out a small sigh and rolled her eyes playfully. “Alright, alright. You’re lucky I’m not the one planning where to place the herbs, otherwise I’d probably ruin it with too much ‘creativity.’”

“Like how you ‘creatively’ tried to make the soup last week?” Agatha teased, arching a brow.

“Don’t you dare bring that up.” Rio’s voice was mockingly stern, but the corner of her lips tugged into a grin as she walked over to the table where the small potted plants were waiting. “Let’s just focus on not killing the plants first.”

You and Agatha exchanged a look, both of you trying not to laugh. Agatha shot you a wink before turning to Rio. “I’ll try to keep things from getting too messy. You’ve got the gardening skills, but I’ve got the… shall we say, extra flair?”

Rio gave her a playful shove, almost knocking over a small watering can. “If you’re going to help, at least make sure you don’t knock over anything.”

The lighthearted banter continued, the night slipping away slowly, full of laughter, shared glances, and small, tender moments that you would never forget. Agatha was right, life with her had always been chaotic, but there was something comforting about it now. With Rio by your side, it felt more grounded, as though everything you had been through had led to this simple, beautiful moment.

You stepped closer to the window, looking out into the night sky as the stars began to twinkle softly. Everything felt peaceful now, the chaos of the past finally starting to settle. Agatha, Rio, and you, together in this house, building something new. It wasn’t always easy, and there would be challenges ahead, but you knew, deep down, that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

Agatha leaned into you, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m glad I’m here with you and Rio.”

You leaned into her, and then Rio stepped up behind you, her arms wrapping around both of you. The three of you stood there for a while, the weight of the moment settling into your bones. No words were needed, just the soft feeling of being together, of having finally found your place in this world.

And as the night deepened, you felt the future stretch out before you, full of endless possibilities.

“You know,” Rio said, breaking the quiet, “we might need to get more plants. It’s kind of addicting.”

Agatha’s laughter filled the room, light and teasing. “I’m sure we can find a way to make it work.”

With Rio laughing along, and you smiling softly in their embrace, you knew that this was it, this was your home, with the people who had come to mean everything to you.

No more searching. No more running. Just the three of you, in this house, together, making a life as it came.

And maybe, just maybe, planting a few more herbs along the way.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~

The night had settled into a gentle calm atmosphere, and you, Agatha, and Rio were curled up together on the couch, a soft throw blanket wrapped around the three of you. The movie played quietly in the background, but you weren’t really paying attention. The warmth of the room, the gentle pressure of Agatha’s hand on your shoulder, and Rio’s presence beside you made everything feel perfectly still, as though the world outside had faded into nothing.

As the minutes passed, you felt your eyelids grow heavier. Agatha’s soft voice teasing Rio over a plot twist, and the rhythmic sound of Rio’s quiet chuckle were enough to lull you into a peaceful drowsiness. It wasn’t long before your head slipped from Agatha’s shoulder to rest against her chest, the steady beat of her heart offering a soothing lullaby. Rio leaned her head against yours, her presence grounding you further into comfort.

The movie’s sounds became distant, almost like a dream. You tried to stay awake, but the pull of sleep was too strong. You finally gave in, your body relaxing entirely as your breathing slowed.

Agatha looked down at you, smiling softly as she brushed a few strands of hair from your face. “Someone’s out like a light,” she whispered, her voice tender.

Rio gave a soft laugh, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “She was barely holding on. I think the movie was just an excuse for her to fall asleep.”

“Let’s get her to bed,” Agatha suggested, her voice full of quiet affection. She carefully shifted, making sure to keep the blanket around you, and Rio helped guide you gently to your feet.

Together, they moved you through the house, their hands guiding you in perfect synchrony. You barely stirred, too deep in your sleepy haze. When they reached the bedroom, Agatha pulled back the covers, and Rio adjusted the pillows, ensuring everything was just right.

With the same care, they helped you into bed, each taking a side. Agatha curled up on one side of you, Rio on the other. The three of you settled into the warmth of the blankets, the soft scent of the room, and the comforting weight of each other.

Agatha reached over and brushed her fingers through your hair, her voice barely a whisper. “Goodnight, love. Rest well.” She pressed a soft kiss to your forehead before settling in beside you.

Rio mirrored the gesture, her lips lightly brushing your temple as she whispered, “We’ll be here when you wake up.” Her arm slipped around you, pulling you a little closer as she settled into the bed beside you.

The warmth of their closeness, the gentle rhythm of their breathing, and the quiet night wrapped around the three of you like a protective cocoon. As the world outside faded away, the only sound that remained was the steady beat of their hearts and the peaceful silence that had settled over the room.

And there, together, you all drifted into sleep, each of you finding your own peace in the presence of the others, knowing that this, this quiet, warm night was exactly where you were meant to be.

~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~<~>~

Fin <3

Taglist: @midnight-lestrange

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The House Guest 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes

Summary: an old acquaintance calls in a favour, leaving you with an unexpected house guest.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The speaker drones lowly, your playlist cycling through your most listened. You fall into your routine. You always liked cooking. It was always comforting. Your grandmother taught you all her favourite recipes whenever you came around. The familiar aromas bring back what can never truly be. 

You split the squash with a large knife, the thunk jarring you. You might not be the safest person in the kitchen but you’ve yet to do worse than a few nicks. You gut the seeds from inside and scoop in a heap of butter and brown sugar, then drizzle the rest with maple syrup. You’ll bake that while you work on the roast. 

The back door clatters and makes you flinch. Somehow, you almost forgot. That needling presence never really fades completely but you felt somewhat normal. 

You listen as Bucky lingers at the back door. He appears in the kitchen door as you look over. His grey jacket is streaked in dirt and his hands are similarly filthy. You give him a curious squint. 

“Got rid of that dead stump. Rot’s not good to keep around,” he explains. 

“Oh, right, you... wait? How did you do that? I was supposed to borrow Ian’s axe--” 

“Don’t need an axe,” he wiggles his vibranium fingers at you. “Gonna wash up. Anything I can help out with in here?” 

“Think I’m good,” you assure him, “I’m almost done.” 

“Mm, smells good,” he glances the pan of squash. 

“Hope so,” you reply. 

He watches you a moment before he turns away. His footsteps echo after him and fade into the soft music. You carry on, putting quartered onions and garlic cloves round the cut of meat. You baste and season, then put it all in the stove. 

You gather up the peels and seeds into your hands and head down the hall to toss it all in the compost. You get to the back door and clamour through, dumping it all into the barrel. You dust your hands off before you head inside. 

You didn’t notice the open door before. You’re slightly embarrassed as you glance over and catch Bucky lathering up his hands in the sink. You quickly flit away without another look. Oops. 

Cramped quarters are bound to get awkward but you hadn’t expected that sight. Bucky, shirtless, focused on his hands as he scrubbed away the dirt. You can see it vividly as you try not to think of it.  

The tortured flesh around his left shoulder, trimming the dark metal of his prosthetic, his other arm as hard as the other, firm and rounded with muscle. His chest full and just as taut, though his middle was softer. The little bit that stuck out over his pants and the extra layer of padding up his stomach filled him out, though there was strength woven into his entire body. 

You shake your head and swallow. You wipe down the counter and rinse off the used dishes and cutlery. You busy yourself and do your best to forget. 

You open the fridge and take out a bottle of sparkling water. You close it and nearly cry out as Bucky stands behind the door. He reaches up to grip the top of the fridge. He wears a fresh ribbed tank top, his arm flexing as he looms over you. 

“Mind grabbing me a beer, please and thanks.” 

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” you open the door again and take out a bottle of beer.  

“Sorry?” He echoes as the fridge closes with a nudge of your elbow, “for what?” 

“Um, nothing, just, didn’t hear you, I guess.” 

“Ah, so it’s not that Canadian thing you do?” 

“Canadian thing?” 

“You apologised for tripping earlier.” He shrugs as he accepts the beer. 

“Oh? Habit, maybe. I didn’t notice.” 

He chortles, “you know, I served with some Canadians. Good soldiers. They always show up.” 

“Wow, I... makes sense... my great grandfather served. Came back and drove a truck after,” you say. “My grandmother talked about him a lot but I was too young to remember him before he passed.” 

“Sorry,” he says, “ha, there I go, huh? Or is it eh?” You give him a look. He uncaps his beer and arches a brow. “What’s that for?” 

“What?” You wonder. 

“That look? Sam did say you could be a bit... never mind.” 

“He said I could be a bit what?” You twist of the plastic lid of your flavoured water. 

“Nothing, he always says shit, you know? Tells everybody I’m a grumpy old man. I’m old and I’m tired, not grumpy,” he insists as he leans on the counter and drinks his beer. As he does, he lifts his vibranium hand and picks at his thumb with the index. “Mm,” he pulls his lips off the neck, “you got a cuticle stick or something? This damn thing collects dirt like a broom.” 

“I might have something. Got Q-Tips,” you offer. 

“Whatever you got. I should probably clean this thing before dinner,” he says. 

“Sure, let me just go look.” 

You put your water down and squeeze past him. He doesn’t shy away, crowding you as you pass him. You don’t know if he’s just not paying attention or what.  

You go down to the bathroom and pull out the drawer. You wince as something rolls against the front. Shit. You really hope he wasn’t looking around already. You reach inside and take out the suction toy you shove it up your sleeve. Would he know what the silicon rose was? 

You search around and find a nail kit. You bought it thinking you were going to go camping but that never happened. Maybe next year. 

You dip into your room and tuck the silicon toy on the bookshelf then head back to the kitchen. You hand him the small case. “Brand new. You can keep it.” 

“Oh, uh, thanks,” he accepts it, wiggling it between his fingers, “I’ll just go... take care of this.” 

He drinks again from his beer and sidles through the doorway next to you. You slip through and retreat to the stove as warmth blooms around it. Is it the cooking that’s making you sweat or something else? 

[lunarw0rks]

i’ve never seen anybody write for simon riley better than u 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 can i request him + manhandling idc if it’s headcanons drabble ANYTHINGGGG ur writing is just too good

A/N: thank you so much, I'm always doubtful about my characterization lowkey, so this means a lot <3 I think about manhandling!ghost several times daily.

Summary: Ghost manhandles you.

Warning(s): explicit content (18+), strong language, smut, rough sex, manhandling, p in v sex, fingering, size kink, creampie, established relationship, fem!reader, no use of y/n

Word Count: 2.3k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ ao3 ver.

Manhandling // Drabble

With Simon’s rough and rugged line of work, the last thing he wants to do is exert himself even more, especially at his partner’s expense…

… Right?

Well, that’s not always the case.

Sometimes, he can’t help himself; his full strength is used on them with ease, the shock of it all. The power of his large, calloused hands and bulging biceps. And most underrated, his toned thighs, the force of his knees to pin a squirming hostile.

IT STARTS SLOWLY; the things you’re used to, like a grab of the jaw or a slight tug of the hair, all verbatim of what his hands normally do during foreplay. The first time he wanted to be rough, to manhandle, he told you beforehand. Since it’s such a rarity for him, why not use the element of surprise? The hand on your jaw, the scalp grip, the lack of words in between kisses, you’re just expecting his routine intimacy. But then… it felt different—abrasive.

Your back finds the wall or the back of the couch, his hold caging you there—not that you have a choice, or care to at this point. That other side of him can be so… exciting to see after months of him teaching you like your body is glass bound to shatter.

❝Keep your hands there, dammit, or stay fuckin’ still,❞ the grumble catches your attention because you hadn’t realized how much his digging fingers were making you squirm, all before they even reached anywhere remotely sensitive. In return, your hands remain on his waist, holding onto the fabric of his tee for dear life.

In truth, you’re too intrigued to disobey, and it’s abundantly clear that this side of him had the ability to make this experience tortuous.

NOT GOOD ENOUGH; No, not you—the couch isn’t good enough. In one swift motion, you’re over hiked over his shoulder like a wounded soldier. Only, his supporting hand is gripping your rear and not the legs of a maimed person, as he’d been trained. The shriek you let out, charms him, to say the least, not that his expression would show much of it. Your view is of the curves of his back, head bouncing against it as he takes calculated strides up the steps, as if there isn’t the weight of a grown person literally on his shoulder.

You hear the hinges screech, the same way they do even when you try to open the door quietly, but it’s clear that’s not a concern of his right now because it shuts and locks just as quickly. A tedious habit of his, even when not engaging in intimacy, even when he sweeps the house before bed every night.

Your back hits the mattress with a few bounces because you’ve been tossed. The small gasp you let out, it’s nothing compared to the resonant, growling chuckle that escapes him.

❝Don’t be a prude now.❞ The humor ends when he speaks. ❝I saw the way you were lookin’ at me… you’re enjoying this.❞

His fist finds the t-shirt you’re wearing, one of his, thrusting it upwards and over your head. It’s like your body is moving for you, how you raised your arms when he removed the shirt, but in your head it’s only a thick fog of lust.

NO TIME TO PREPARE; Simon knows his size, and he’s well aware of how harsh he is. He’s not a barbarian—a little foreplay is the humane thing to do.

His tongue is too intimate, and caressing your figure is too slow. After a few seconds of contemplation concealed by his lips on yours, he’s come to a decision. Hands, it is. Similar to the shirt, he nearly shreds the bottoms. With this cloud of his aggressiveness, he’d shred any clothing in his way. There was no time to tease, either. The sooner he can bottom out inside you, the sooner his frustrations will fizzle.

You’re clothless now, aside from the panties, though they were ripped off before you could catch up. ❝Simon,❞ he doesn’t raise his head, but the hooded stare is enough to shut you up. It was more of a moan than an alert, like you were already void of your full articulation.

If you really wanted to stop, for him to slow down, you wouldn’t be grinding your hips against his fingers.

Simon was only rubbing your inner thighs and you’d already said his name once, so imagine his amusement when he runs his thumb along your clit.

He has to stop himself; he’s not there to massage it like he normally would, he’s down there to prepare you for his size. Though, the hypothetical sight of you circling it yourself while he pumps his fingers, it would be enough to make him finish in his jeans.

Whether you do or not is up to you, it’s your body about to be misused, not his.

His head moves from hovering over your sex, to back over you, only he’s nipping at your cleavage and not your upper lips. There’s no warning; you feel it before you can beg for anything. His middle and ring finger, easing its way in, before he wastes no time curling them against your walls.

Still, with one hand occupied, his strength prevails. The unoccupied one is on your shoulder, keeping you pinned so only your hips have any range of movement. ❝Already a mess for me.❞ His mouth is slightly agape, like he wanted it there instead of his fingers. It was true—the methodical, sticky noise, especially when he went faster and it gathered more on the area. After only a minute of this, it had dripped down the length of his fingers, already a small pool on his charcoal gray sheets.

IMPATIENCE; sure, you could try and fight his grip, but you’re only tiring yourself out more. It didn’t matter how much you wanted to touch him, to do something other than lay there and writhe—good luck. He had already pictured this, when he was kissing you downstairs, what position he was going to put you in. Hips controlled, hands free; the opposite of the one he just fingered you in.

Lucky, or unlucky for you, he was aching for release.

His fingers, once pumping in and out of you, removed just as quickly. With skill, he unbuckled his belt and was left in his boxers and t-shirt—eyes commanding, watching you ache for him impatiently. It was almost humorous, him being in charge and hasty, but you’re the one clenching around nothing.

Simon was never one for conversations, and he sure as hell wasn’t now—not when his cock sprang out of his boxers, throbbing and athirst. The tip of it, already slick with pre-cum was futile against the amount of wetness already soaking your core. At least he knew he wasn’t going to break you entirely, only immobilize you for a few hours at most—the thought of that only encouraged his ravishment.

IRON GRIP; for only a few seconds, one hand is on his length, lining it up. He groans lowly, a string of curses escaping his lips when he slips in with ease. The stretch alone could make him finish, how his size is crammed in, despite the warm-up he gave you with his fingers. But it’s not a slow entrance, it’s deep and forceful, so satisfying he would go forever if he could. ❝So fuckin’ tight,❞ he says, yanking your body towards his length, as opposed to using his own hips to pump himself. But that isn’t enough—you’re moving around too much, you can’t help it, he fills you so well.

Rather than harsh words, another command telling you to stop moving, he uses his strength again. For a second, he debated on putting your own panties in your mouth, maybe a hand there instead, but he wanted to hear every desperate exclamation increase the more he used you.

Before, he was only being rough, and it was nothing compared to how ferocious he’s being now. Both hands find your hips, lifting them off the bed, thrusting your weight on his length with all his force. Shoulder blades and above are still on the mattress, while the bottom half of you is lifted. The angle of it, how he’s lifting you, he’s hitting spots so deep inside—so rarely stimulated. And he’s hitting it with such force, a constant, repetitive pound kissing your g-spot. ❝Take it all for me.❞ As if you have a choice in the matter, he’s already bottomed out.

Even if he wasn’t finding that unparalleled spot, the sight of his eyes half-open, the grunts that sound like growls, even just the pure feeling of him inside you would be enough. From his perspective, it’s just as arousing; the mouth agape, your back stuck in an arch, how you pulse around him with each thrust, the sticky mess coating his cock and lubricating his forceful jerks.

FINISH ME; his movements have gone from calculated to sloppy, but the speed has only decreased a thread. The sound of skin meeting skin, each grind of his hips followed by the sound of your wetness, it’s inching him closer to his finish. And you, that spot deep inside you abused and built up in your abdomen like a funnel cloud—it wouldn’t be long now, not while he’s drilling you.

When he’s hitting that spot, there’s no need to press down on your stomach, to stimulate the clit that’s been throbbing this whole time. It’s like ecstasy, making your eyes roll slightly, each muscle from your pelvis to your toes tighten and tremble. If it weren’t for his large hands holding up your hips, there’s no way your legs would’ve been able to support themselves, and they sure as hell won’t be able to after he’s done.

❝Be good ‘nd cum for me,❞ his chest heaves only slightly, fingertips leaving marks where they’ve been digging for minutes straight. It’s more of a beg than he lets on, because if you keep whining like that, he’s going to finish before you. But you’re so close; he’s seen it several times now—the babbling, the shivering, the pleading under your breath—as if he’s going to stop now.

Within seconds of his relentless movements, the arousal his voice gave you, you were there, dissolving into the pleasure building brick by brick for minutes now. It comes like a sledgehammer, leaving you shaking against him while a string of reaction phrases breath through your lips. ❝There it is…❞ A small chuckle leaves his lips, but you’re too lost to notice.

He’s slowed only a little bit, as if to hold off his own release until yours has finished. He can’t be too distracted and miss it, otherwise he’d just have to start all over again—in his mind, he’s unsure you could even handle that, the sheer size and force he would use to do that.

The feeling ripples through you, his thrusts only magnifying it for you. Your hands find anything they can, first a futile attempt to reach him, but the angle makes it difficult. Then, the sheets you could’ve ripped from the mattress if you tried. Without any of your own control, you’ve tightened and pulsed around his cock repeatedly, so much it would’ve been difficult for him to keep moving if you weren’t so drenched by now. You could swear everything muffled for a few seconds, and if your eyes hadn’t tightened shut, there probably would’ve been black spots.

For him, the sight of it was something he would never pass up; downright sexy for him to watch, motivating his own climax to the point of no control anymore. The bulge of his cock visible on your stomach, he can see himself twitch. When he’d once been thrusting your hips onto him, he had stopped now, his own hips tensing as his head leans back slightly.

❝Fuck.❞ It’s a simple phrase, but his heavy breathing clouding the words says enough. Still, your hips are raised and at his mercy, shivering until he decides he’s done. His abs tightened a few times, spilling every last drop deep inside. He can’t help himself, he sneaks in a few slow thrusts afterward, savoring the feeling of your pillowy walls clenched around him—only until he knows he won’t hold back if he doesn’t pull out this instant.

AFTERMATH; his thumb traces your hips in a soothing manner, letting them down slowly until you’re resting on the mattress again. ❝Shouldn’t have let me do that, or I’ll want to do it again next time.❞ He lets out a deep snigger, pulling himself out slowly. He finds the waistband of his boxers, pulling them up to a normal position again. Then, he finds the throw blanket that ended up tossed onto the dresser, an action he must’ve done in the heat of it, due to his lack of memory.

❝Do what? Make me finish?❞ you ask, breathless and flushed. The quilt is draped over your shivering frame, like an unnecessary apology for the abuse. It seemed no matter how many times you insisted he could be rough, or how many times he was, he fussed over you.

When your tone came out slightly snarky, cocky even, he scoffed. His mind flooded with those images again, biting on his bottom lip with every ounce of his restraint. ❝Don’t get cute with me, love, that’s not what I meant.❞ His menacing nature would once send a chill down your spine, but after that, you’re hoping he’ll do it again, despite the ache in your muscles.

He finally finishes his sentence once he’s leaned in for another kiss, breath on your ever-gasping lips, ❝I’ll always make you finish.❞

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Synopsis: When talented producer Y/n (known professionally as the mysterious "Celeste") accepts a position at JYP Entertainment to help Stray Kids with their comeback, she expects to focus solely on creating music. What she doesn't expect is the immediate connection she feels with Han Jisung—the group's quick-witted, sensitive rapper and producer who's been following her career from afar.

Pairing: Han Jisung x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Smut, Heartbreak

<<Previous Next>> Masterlist

Chapter 11: Revelations

"No, no, no! You have to fold the batter, not stir it," you laughed, watching Felix attack the delicate mixture with the enthusiasm of a child finger-painting. "Gently, like this."

You demonstrated the proper technique, showing how to preserve the air bubbles that would make the cake light and fluffy. Your kitchen counter was covered in flour, sugar, and various measuring tools—evidence of the ambitious three-layer chocolate cake you'd been attempting to teach Felix to make all afternoon.

"Folding, stirring, what's the difference as long as it all gets mixed?" Felix grumbled good-naturedly, flour dusting his cheeks and somehow even his forehead.

"The difference is between a cloud-like cake and a brick," you explained, wiping a smudge of chocolate from his chin. "Trust the process."

Felix mimicked your folding motion with exaggerated care, his expression of intense concentration making you laugh again. These baking sessions had become a cherished routine over the past eight weeks of your Seoul assignment, time carved out from your busy schedule to nurture the friendship that had become so important to you.

"So," Felix began conversationally as he continued folding, "the comeback preparations are going well. Everyone's really happy with the album."

"It's turning out even better than I expected," you agreed, preparing the cake pans with parchment paper. "The fusion elements really complement the group's core sound."

"And the team dynamic has been good," Felix continued, a hint of something in his tone that you couldn't quite identify. "Especially between you and Han. No more awkwardness after that whole movie night situation."

"I kissed Han!" The confession bursts from you with unexpected force, the words tumbling out before you can reconsider. "Actually, he kissed me first. Well, it was mutual. And it wasn't just once. And it hasn’t been just kissing. It's been happening for weeks now. We've been sneaking around like teenagers, and it's absolutely against my contract, and I could get fired, but I can't seem to stop because I think I'm falling for him, and—"

You clamp your hand over your mouth, eyes widening in horror at your own impulsive outburst. The spatula you'd been holding clatters to the counter, splattering cake batter across your previously clean workspace.

Felix stands frozen, the folding tool suspended mid-air, chocolate slowly dripping onto the counter. His mouth opens and closes several times without producing sound, his eyes comically wide as he processes your avalanche of confessions.

The kitchen is silent except for the soft hum of the preheating oven, the tension building as Felix remains completely immobile, like someone had pressed his pause button.

Finally, he blinks rapidly, as if rebooting his system.

"YOU WHAT?!" he screeches, dropping the folding tool entirely, sending batter flying across the counter and onto his shirt. “YOU AND HAN HAVE BEEN… SLEEPING TOGETHER?! FOR WEEKS?!”

"Shhh!" you hiss frantically, glancing at your door in panic. "The entire building doesn't need to know!"

Felix doesn't lower his volume but does switch to a high-pitched whisper that's almost more comical than his shout. "You and Han have been KISSING? AND HAVING SECRET SEX? FOR WEEKS?! SNEAKING AROUND?!"

He begins pacing your small kitchen, hands flailing wildly, occasionally pointing accusingly at you before resuming his frantic movement. Flour and batter fly from his gesticulating hands, adding to the chaos of your kitchen.

"I can't believe this," he continues in the same strained whisper-shout. "I mean, I can absolutely believe this because the tension between you two has been UNBEARABLE, but I can't believe you've been secretly TOGETHER this whole time?!"

"It wasn't planned," you say weakly, sinking into a kitchen chair as the weight of your confession settles over you. "It just... happened."

"Things like this don't 'just happen,' Y/n!" Felix counters, finally stopping his pacing to stare at you intently. "People don't just accidentally kiss multiple times over several weeks!"

"The first time was kind of an accident," you defend, though you know how ridiculous it sounds even as you say it. "We were working on his solo tracks, and then suddenly..."

"Suddenly what? You both tripped and your lips collided?" Felix's voice is rising again, his expression a mixture of shock, disbelief, and what might be emerging delight beneath the outrage.

"No, but... we agreed it would be a one-time thing," you explain lamely. "And then it happened again. And again. And we kept saying 'this is the last time' until finally we admitted there were actual feelings involved and decided to stop fighting it."

Felix collapses dramatically into the chair opposite you, hand over his heart. "I am literally having a cardiac event right now. The two most stubborn, professional, 'the work comes first' people I know have been conducting a secret romance behind everyone's backs." He suddenly sits bolt upright. "WHEN DID THIS START?!"

"After movie night," you admit, though that's not entirely accurate. "Well, technically before that. The Sunday he came over to work on his tracks was the first time, but then we said it wouldn't happen again. After movie night is when we decided to stop pretending and just... let it happen."

Felix stares at the ceiling, as if seeking divine guidance. "Two weeks. You've been officially sneaking around for TWO WEEKS and I didn't know? I, Felix Lee, the person who notices EVERYTHING about his friends, didn't catch this?"

"We were very careful," you offer, a small, guilty smile forming despite your embarrassment. "Professional in public, never alone together where anyone could see."

"The equipment room!" Felix suddenly exclaims, pointing at you accusingly again. "That day Changbin and I needed cables! You were both in there with the door locked! Making out and doing..THINGS?!" 

Your crimson face confirms his suspicion, causing him to fall back in his chair with a theatrical groan.

"I cannot believe this," he repeats, though his initial shock is clearly giving way to amusement. "Actually, no, I absolutely can believe this. The way Han looks at you when he thinks no one is watching? The way you always seem to know exactly where he is in any room? The 'coincidental' early arrivals and late departures from the studio?"

Put that way, you wonder how more of the members hadn't caught on. "Have we really been that obvious?"

"Only to someone paying attention," Felix concedes, his expression softening as he leans forward. "So... it's serious? Not just physical?"

You nod, unable to stop the smile that forms when thinking about your relationship with Han. "It's definitely not just physical. We talk, we share things, we... connect. I've never experienced anything like it, Felix. Even knowing all the complications, I can't bring myself to end it."

Felix's outrage has completely transformed now, replaced by a growing delight. "Oh my god, you're actually falling for him. This is simultaneously the most romantic and most scandalous thing I've ever witnessed."

"Please don't tell anyone," you plead, suddenly remembering the very real consequences your confession could have. "The contract clause—"

"Your secret is safe with me," Felix assures you immediately, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. "I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize either of you. But as your newly designated secret-keeper, I demand details. Not inappropriate ones," he clarifies quickly, seeing your expression. "Just... how do you manage it? Where do you find time alone? Who else knows?"

"No one else knows," you confirm, relief washing over you at his acceptance. "And we find time wherever we can—early mornings, late nights, whenever the dorms are empty or everyone's out. It's not ideal, but..."

"But worth it?" Felix supplies with a knowing smile.

"Yeah," you admit softly. "Worth it."

Felix shakes his head, but his expression is fond rather than judgmental. "You know, when this all inevitably blows up, I'm going to be saying 'I told you so' while simultaneously defending your honor and helping you escape to a non-extradition country."

You laugh despite the anxiety his words provoke. "It's not going to blow up. We're being careful."

"You just blurted out your entire relationship to me in the middle of cake baking," Felix points out dryly. "That doesn't exactly scream 'careful.'"

"Well, you're different," you insist. "I trust you."

His expression softens at that. "I'm honored. And I promise I won't let you down." He stands suddenly, returning to the abandoned cake batter. "Now, we should finish this cake before your secret boyfriend comes over tonight."

You choke slightly. "How did you know Han was coming over?"

Felix gives you a supremely unimpressed look. "Everyone else is scheduled for that variety show filming tonight. I'm supposedly spending the evening with you. Han mysteriously declined to join the others with some excuse about 'working on lyrics.' It doesn't take a detective to connect those very obvious dots."

"We're terrible at this, aren't we?" you groan, joining him at the counter.

"Spectacularly bad," Felix confirms cheerfully. "But don't worry. Now that I'm officially in on the secret, I can help provide alibis and distractions. Consider me your personal relationship bodyguard."

"That's... actually really helpful," you admit, resuming your cake preparation.

"Of course it is. I'm extremely helpful." Felix begins folding the batter again with exaggerated care. "Just promise me one thing?"

"What's that?"

"When you inevitably get caught by someone else—because let's be realistic, it's going to happen—I want to be there to witness the chaos."

You laugh despite yourself, throwing a small pinch of flour at him. "Your confidence in our discretion is overwhelming."

"Just being practical," Felix grins, dodging the flour. "Two people who can barely keep their eyes off each other in public are bound to slip up eventually. My money's on Hyunjin catching you next. He's surprisingly perceptive underneath all the dramatic flair."

"We'll be more careful," you insist, though you wonder if that's even possible now that you've had a taste of the freedom that comes with someone knowing your secret.

"Sure you will," Felix agrees, clearly unconvinced. "Now, tell me everything while we finish this cake. I want the full story, from first glance to secret rendezvous to whatever is happening tonight that I'm conveniently giving you privacy for."

As you return to the cake preparation, you find yourself sharing more details than you'd intended—how natural it felt to be with Han, how your creative connection had evolved into something deeper, how the stolen moments brought both joy and anxiety about eventual discovery.

Felix listens with genuine interest, his initial shock completely replaced by supportive enthusiasm. By the time the cake is assembled, frosted, and decorated, you feel lighter than you have in weeks, the burden of your secret lessened by having someone to share it with.

"It's a masterpiece," Felix declares, admiring the finished cake. "Almost too beautiful to eat."

"Almost," you agree, knowing full well neither of you possessed the restraint to leave it untouched for long.

"We should have a slice before I conveniently remember my other commitment," Felix suggests, already reaching for plates. "It would be a shame not to test our creation."

You cut generous slices, the rich chocolate aroma filling your small kitchen. The first bite confirms your success—the cake was perfectly moist, the frosting decadently smooth.

"We're geniuses," Felix declares through a mouthful of chocolate. "Baking geniuses."

You laugh, enjoying both the cake and the company. Despite the initial shock of your impulsive confession, you feel lighter now that Felix knows about your relationship with Han. The secret hasn't diminished, but sharing it with someone you trust has made it feel less burdensome somehow.

After devouring his slice of cake with impressive speed, Felix glances at his watch with exaggerated surprise. "Oh my! Look at the time. I just remembered I have that very important thing I absolutely cannot miss."

"Subtle," you comment dryly. "Very convincing."

"I try," he replies with a grin, standing to gather his things. "Enjoy your 'music production session' with Han. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves a disturbing amount of options open," you note, walking him to the door.

Felix pauses before leaving, his expression turning briefly serious. "I am happy for you both, you know. Whatever happens when you go back to LA... at least you'll have had this time together."

His words echo your own justification for pursuing the relationship despite its complicated circumstances, and you find yourself unexpectedly emotional at his understanding.

"Thank you," you say simply, hugging him briefly. "For everything."

"Anytime," he replies, his usual brightness returning. "That's what best friends are for. Now, I'll be conveniently unavailable until tomorrow morning, so feel free to text only in case of emergency."

With a final wink, he departs, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of chocolate and the anticipated flutter of seeing Han soon. You take advantage of the time to clean up the baking mess, change into something nicer than flour-covered clothes, and arrange your small living space for both comfortable seating and potential music production.

The knock at your door comes precisely at seven, as planned. You open it to find Han standing there, looking unfairly handsome in simple jeans and a black t-shirt, his laptop bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hey," he greets with the half-smile that never fails to make your heart skip. "Anyone see you?" you ask, pulling him inside quickly and checking the empty hallway before closing the door.

"All clear," he confirms. "Felix texted that he's out for the evening, and everyone else is at the variety show filming." He sets down his bag, turning to you with a different kind of smile now—the private one reserved for these moments alone. "Missed you."

"It's been six hours since the studio," you remind him, though you step willingly into his embrace.

"Six hours too long," he murmurs against your hair, his arms tightening around you.

This has become your pattern—maintaining professional distance throughout the day, then falling into each other the moment privacy allows. The dual existence is challenging but has its own kind of thrill, the contrast between public restraint and private freedom making these moments all the more precious.

"I have news," you say as you reluctantly separate. "Or a confession, actually."

Han raises an eyebrow, settling onto your couch. "That sounds ominous."

"I told Felix about us," you blurt out, watching his expression carefully for his reaction. "It was an accident. We were baking, and he was making these observations about how we seem more comfortable around each other lately, and I just... completely lost control of my mouth and confessed everything."

You expected shock, perhaps concern, but Han's expression shifts to something more like relief. "How did he take it?"

"Dramatically," you say with a small laugh. "First shock, then outrage that we'd kept it secret, then smug satisfaction that he'd suspected all along. But he's happy for us and promised to keep it to himself."

Han nods thoughtfully. "I'm actually glad he knows. Felix is the most trustworthy person I know, and it might be good to have someone covering for us occasionally."

His easy acceptance surprises you. "You're not worried about the contract? About someone knowing?"

Han reaches for your hand, pulling you down to sit beside him. "If it had to be someone, I'm glad it's Felix. And honestly, it's a relief not to be hiding from absolutely everyone."

You relax against him, sharing his sentiment. "He's already volunteered to make himself scarce whenever we need privacy. After thoroughly mocking us, of course."

"I would expect nothing less," Han laughs, his arm settling comfortably around your shoulders. "Did he give you a hard time?"

"Let's just say there were many innuendos about 'whipping' and 'rising' during our cake baking."

Han groans, though his eyes crinkle with amusement. "Of course there were. Felix never misses an opportunity for a bad joke."

"We made chocolate cake, by the way," you add, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Want some?"

"Later," Han replies, his expression shifting subtly as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I can think of other things I've been waiting all day for."

The simple touch sends familiar warmth through you, weeks of stolen moments having done nothing to diminish the effect he has on you. If anything, the connection has only deepened with time, evolving from initial attraction to something far more substantial.

"What about your solo tracks?" you ask, maintaining the pretense that had brought him to your dorm officially. "I thought we were working on production tonight."

"We are," he confirms seriously, though his eyes betray him. "Right after I thoroughly greet my secret girlfriend whom I haven't been able to properly look at all day."

The term 'girlfriend' sends a pleasant jolt through you—it isn't a word either of you had used before, the relationship existing in an undefined space that seemed safer than explicit labels.

"Girlfriend?" you echo, raising an eyebrow.

Han's ears redden slightly, though he doesn't back down. "Is that okay? I know we haven't really defined this, but in my head, that's... what you are."

The vulnerability in his admission makes your heart swell. "I like it," you assure him, leaning closer. "Sounds better than 'the producer I'm secretly hooking up with.'"

"Much more dignified," he agrees, relief and affection mingling in his smile. "Though 'hooking up' is definitely still on the agenda."

"Is it now?" you tease, already closing the distance between you. "How presumptuous, Han Jisung."

"Just confident in my girlfriend's preferences," he murmurs against your lips before finally kissing you properly.

Time has taught you both exactly how the other likes to be kissed—the pressure, the pace, the perfect angle. Han's hand cradles your jaw as he deepens the kiss, your bodies shifting naturally until you're half in his lap, hands sliding under his t-shirt to feel the warm skin beneath.

The pretense of working on music fades rapidly as Han's lips travel from your mouth to your neck, finding the sensitive spot that reliably makes you gasp. Your fingers tangle in his hair, encouraging the attention while your other hand continues its exploration under his shirt.

"This is new," Han observes between kisses, fingering the delicate collar of the blouse you'd changed into after baking. "I like it."

"Thought you might," you admit, having deliberately chosen something more special than your usual casual wear. "But it's a bit restrictive."

Han grins against your skin, understanding your implication immediately. "Can't have that," he agrees, fingers finding the top button. "Especially when we're trying to work on music."

"Exactly," you say with mock seriousness. "Creative freedom requires physical comfort."

What had begun as playful banter quickly transforms into something more heated as Han methodically unbuttons your blouse, his eyes darkening as more skin is revealed. This too is familiar territory by now—the gradual crossing of physical boundaries that has developed alongside your emotional connection.

When your blouse finally slides off your shoulders, Han takes a moment to simply look at you, appreciation evident in his expression. "Beautiful," he says softly, with the same reverence he reserves for particularly moving music.

"Your turn," you insist, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. "Fair is fair."

Han obliges, pulling his shirt over his head in one fluid motion before drawing you back into his arms. The feel of skin against skin sends electricity through your system, your bodies fitting together with practiced ease as the kisses grow more urgent.

Lost in the moment, neither of you hears the first knock at your door. Or the second. It isn't until the door actually opens—unlocked because Felix had left earlier and you'd been too distracted upon Han's arrival to secure it—that reality intrudes in the most unwelcome way possible.

"Y/n, sorry to barge in, but Felix said you had cake and the filming ended early so we—OH MY GOD!"

You and Han freeze mid-embrace, heads turning in synchronized horror to find Hyunjin standing in your doorway, mouth agape, eyes widened to comical proportions as he takes in the scene before him—you straddling Han's lap, both of you notably shirtless, in a position that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

For one excruciating moment, no one moves. Then Hyunjin slaps his hands over his eyes, though he peeks through his fingers as he screeches, "MY EYES! MY INNOCENT EYES!"

"HYUNJIN!" Han finally finds his voice, scrambling to cover you with a nearby throw blanket while reaching frantically for his discarded t-shirt. "SHUT THE DOOR!"

"I KNEW IT!" Hyunjin continues shouting, still not closing the door, his expression transforming from shock to absolute delight despite his theatrical horror. "I KNEW SOMETHING WAS GOING ON!"

You manage to extract yourself from Han's lap, clutching the blanket around you as you lunge for your blouse. "Hyunjin, please—the door!" you hiss, mortification burning through your entire body.

Instead of complying, Hyunjin turns his head toward the hallway and yells, "GUYS! YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE—"

Han moves with surprising speed, crossing the room in three strides to physically pull Hyunjin inside and shut the door behind him, cutting off his announcement to whoever might be in the corridor.

"Are you insane?!" Han demands, still shirtless but too focused on damage control to care. "Do you want the entire building to know?"

Hyunjin, finally contained within your dorm with the door safely closed, bounces on his toes with barely suppressed excitement. "I can't believe this! You and Y/n! Half-naked! On the couch! This is the best day of my life!"

"It's about to be the last day of your life if you don't lower your voice," you threaten, having managed to put your blouse back on, though several buttons are misaligned in your haste.

Hyunjin claps his hands over his mouth, though his eyes still dance with unholy glee. "Sorry," he stage-whispers. "But oh my god, you guys! How long has this been happening? Does anyone else know? Is it serious? Is it just physical? Are you in love? Are you breaking the contract clause on purpose? Is the forbidden nature making it hotter?"

The rapid-fire questions, delivered with Hyunjin's characteristic lack of filter, make your head spin. Han, who has also managed to put his shirt back on, looks like he's contemplating defenestration—either Hyunjin's or his own.

"Hyunjin," you begin, adopting your most authoritative producer voice despite your flushed cheeks. "This situation is private and complicated, and we would greatly appreciate your discretion."

"Translation: keep your mouth shut or die," Han adds bluntly.

Hyunjin mimes zipping his lips, though his eyes still sparkle with barely contained excitement. "Your secret is safe with me," he promises. "But you have to tell me everything. How did this start? Who kissed who first? How have you been hiding it? Have you done it in the studio?"

"Hyunjin!" Han and you exclaim simultaneously, your voices harmonizing in scandalized protest.

"What? These are important questions!" Hyunjin defends himself. "For science. And my personal entertainment."

You exchange a look with Han, both of you recognizing the futility of complete denial now that Hyunjin has seen you in such a compromising position. Unlike Felix's gradual suspicions confirmed by your confession, Hyunjin has received undeniable visual evidence.

"If we answer some of your questions," you begin carefully, "will you swear not to tell anyone else? And I mean anyone, Hyunjin. Not Seungmin, not I.N., not even your diary."

Hyunjin nods eagerly, making a crossing motion over his heart. "Cross my heart and hope to die. Not a word to anyone." He pauses, his expression turning slightly more serious. "I wouldn't actually do anything to jeopardize either of you. Despite my dramatic reaction."

His sincerity is somewhat reassuring, though the damage control necessary for this situation is still daunting. Having Felix know had been manageable—he was discreet by nature and genuinely cared about both your well-beings. Hyunjin, while good-hearted, was notorious for his enthusiasm overwhelming his discretion.

"Sit down," Han sighs, gesturing to the chair across from the couch. "And remember, if this gets out, we'll know exactly who to blame."

Hyunjin perches on the edge of the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees like an eager interviewer. "So? Start from the beginning. When did all this..." he waves his hands vaguely between you and Han, "...start happening?"

Han sighs, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "After movie night, officially. But there was... an incident before that."

"An incident?" Hyunjin repeats, eyebrows shooting up with delight. "What kind of incident?"

"The kind that's none of your business," you interject, though your burning cheeks probably give away more than you'd like.

"Fine, fine," Hyunjin concedes, though his smile suggests he's filling in the blanks himself. 

You sigh watching him burst with excitement over the drama of it. “Felix knows too so you can  gossip with him.”

"Oh thank god,” he sighs dramatically.”Since when?"

"Literally today," you admit. "I accidentally blurted it out while we were baking. It wasn't planned."

"And you've been sneaking around this whole time?" Hyunjin marvels, looking genuinely impressed. "Secret meetings, private moments, forbidden romance... it's like a drama!"

"It's not a drama," Han corrects, though there's a hint of resignation in his tone. "It's our actual lives, with real professional consequences if this becomes public knowledge."

"Right, right," Hyunjin nods seriously, though his eyes still dance with excitement. "The contract clause. Very serious. Very problematic." He pauses, his expression growing more genuine. "But worth it?"

The simple question catches you both off guard. You glance at Han, finding his eyes already on you, something warm and certain in his gaze.

"Yeah," Han answers softly, reaching for your hand. "Worth it."

The gentle affirmation makes your heart swell, despite the chaos of the moment.

Hyunjin clutches his chest dramatically. "This is simultaneously the most romantic and most chaotic thing I've ever witnessed. I'm honored to be part of your secret circle of trust."

"You're not part of any circle," Han corrects quickly. "You just happened to barge in at the worst possible moment."

"A moment I will treasure and also try to erase from my memory forever," Hyunjin assures you both. "But seriously, I won't tell anyone. I know I'm not always the best at keeping secrets, but I understand how important this is."

There's a sincerity in his eyes that's reassuring despite his theatrical nature. You've always known there was more depth to Hyunjin than his flamboyant exterior suggested.

"Thank you," you say, meaning it. "We're just... figuring this out as we go."

"With the added complication of your eventual return to LA," Hyunjin observes, surprisingly insightful. "That can't be easy."

Han's hand tightens slightly around yours at the mention of your departure—still ten weeks away but looming nonetheless.

"We're taking it day by day," Han says, echoing the agreement you'd made when first acknowledging your feelings. "Not overthinking the future."

"Very zen," Hyunjin approves. "Very 'seize the moment.' I respect it." He stands suddenly, clapping his hands together. "Well! I should probably leave you two to your... music production. Very important stuff."

His exaggerated wink removes any doubt about what he thinks you'll be doing, but you're too relieved at his apparent departure to correct him.

"Just remember," he adds, backing toward the door, "lock your door next time. Some people have less convenient timing than me."

"Like who?" Han asks suspiciously. "Did anyone else come back early with you?"

"Relax," Hyunjin assures him. "Just Seungmin, but he went straight to his dorm to organize his vinyl collection or whatever he does for fun. Your secret romance remains secret." He pauses at the door, hand on the knob. "For now."

With a final dramatic wink, he slips out, closing the door quietly behind him.

The moment he's gone, Han jumps up to lock the door, double-checking it before returning to the couch with a heavy sigh.

"That... was not how I planned for this evening to go," he says, collapsing back onto the cushions.

"Not quite," you agree, leaning against him as the tension of the encounter slowly dissipates. "So now Felix and Hyunjin know."

"Felix I trust completely," Han muses. "Hyunjin... well, his heart's in the right place, even if his discretion is questionable."

"Do you think he'll really keep it to himself?" you ask, genuine concern creeping into your voice.

Han considers this for a moment. "Actually, yes. Despite his dramatic tendencies, Hyunjin takes friendship seriously. If he promised not to tell, he won't. He just might tease us mercilessly in private."

You groan, imagining the knowing looks and suggestive comments that would undoubtedly come from both Felix and Hyunjin now. "This is getting complicated."

"It was already complicated," Han points out, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. "But at least now we have two people who can help cover for us occasionally. Provide alibis, create distractions."

"That's... actually a good point," you admit, finding the silver lining. "And it is kind of nice not to be hiding from absolutely everyone."

Han's expression turns thoughtful. "Does it bother you? The secrecy, the sneaking around?"

You consider the question carefully. "Sometimes. Not the being with you part—that never bothers me. But the constant vigilance, the fear of discovery, the split between professional and personal... it can be exhausting."

"I know what you mean," Han agrees. "Sometimes I just want to be able to look at you without calculating who might notice. Or touch your hand without planning an elaborate excuse."

The simple honesty of his admission makes your chest ache with tenderness. "Maybe someday."

You both know what "someday" means—after your contract ends, after the comeback is complete, after all the professional entanglements are resolved. But it also means after you've returned to LA, after you're separated by thousands of miles and different career trajectories. It's a "someday" filled with complications neither of you are ready to address.

"For now," Han says, clearly steering away from the uncertain future, "we have tonight. Even if it got derailed by the world's most dramatic interruption."

You laugh, grateful for the lightened mood. "Poor Hyunjin. He looked like his brain short-circuited for a moment there."

"Serves him right for not waiting for an answer after knocking," Han grumbles, though there's more amusement than annoyance in his tone now.

"We should probably be more careful," you acknowledge. "Locking doors seems like a basic precaution we've been overlooking."

"Definitely on the checklist going forward," Han agrees, pulling you closer. "Along with checking who's actually attending variety show filmings before assuming everyone's out."

You settle against him, enjoying the simple comfort of being together despite the evening's chaos. "So, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?"

Han smiles, his hand finding yours. "I believe I was about to show you some adjustments to my solo tracks," he says with exaggerated innocence.

"Right," you play along. "Very important music production business."

"Extremely important," he agrees, leaning closer. "Requires complete focus and dedication."

"Well then," you murmur as the distance between you diminishes, "we should probably get back to work."

The kiss that follows feels like coming home after a long journey—familiar yet still thrilling, comfortable yet still exciting. Whatever complications surround your relationship—contract clauses, temporary assignments, unexpected discoveries—this connection between you remains the constant, the thing worth risking everything else for.

When you finally separate, Han's eyes remain closed for a moment, as if savoring the feeling. When he opens them, the tenderness in his gaze makes your heart skip.

"We really should look at those tracks," you say softly, though neither of you moves to retrieve his laptop. "That was the official reason for tonight."

"We will," Han promises, though his attention seems firmly fixed on you rather than music production. "But maybe in a bit? I'm finding it hard to focus on anything else right now."

"Understandable," you agree, fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "It's been an eventful evening."

"That's one way to put it," Han laughs. "Not exactly how I imagined telling Hyunjin about us."

"Did you imagine telling him at all?" you ask, curious.

Han considers this. "Not specifically. But if I had, it definitely wouldn't have involved being shirtless on your couch."

"At least we weren't further along," you point out, making Han groan at the thought.

"Small mercies," he agrees. "Though the way Hyunjin reacted, you'd think he'd walked in on something much more scandalous."

"His flair for drama is unmatched," you laugh. "Did you see how he peeked through his fingers while simultaneously claiming his innocent eyes were being corrupted?"

The shared laughter eases the last of the tension from the evening's surprise, leaving only the comfortable warmth of being together. With the initial shock fading, you find yourself almost grateful for how things unfolded—having Felix and now Hyunjin know feels like a step toward something more real, less hidden.

"Should we actually work on music now?" Han asks after a moment, though his tone suggests he's open to alternatives.

You consider the question, glancing at the clock. "We probably should. Otherwise we're just reinforcing Hyunjin's assumptions about what we do when we're alone."

"Which are?" Han prompts with raised eyebrows.

"Nothing but inappropriate activities with zero professional content," you clarify with a smile.

"Well, we can't have that," Han agrees, reluctantly reaching for his laptop bag. "Music first, then... whatever else the evening brings."

You settle in beside him as he opens his computer, the familiar routine of creative collaboration taking over. Despite the evening's unexpected turn, there's comfort in returning to what brought you together initially—the shared passion for music, the intuitive understanding of each other's creative instincts.

As Han plays his latest revisions, you find yourself reflecting on how much has changed in the eight weeks since you arrived in Seoul. What began as a straightforward professional assignment has evolved into something far more complex and meaningful—friendships that feel like family, creative partnerships that produce your best work, and a relationship with Han that defies simple categorization.

Whatever happens in the weeks that remain—whether more people discover your secret, whether the complications increase, whether the inevitable separation looms larger—you know with absolute certainty that you wouldn't trade this experience for anything.

Some risks, as it turns out, are absolutely worth taking.

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[otaku553]

What if none of those things help? I end up more frustrated when studies don't go well or when I have new inspiration and can't draw it well. I just lapse into more studies and get more frustrated.

Consider a change of routine! Sometimes trying something new like a new brush, new method, new style, will help you break out of consistency and change the way that you draw so that it feels more satisfying for you. For example, most of my comic linearts were previously done with a rectangular brush that I later changed to a fuzzier round brush and that round brush made my strokes looser and faster and and gave it more flow and fluidity, giving me a new stylistic element to play with. Sometimes different tools have a very concrete effect on how you draw, and playing around with that occasionally is good and healthy for growth.

Another drastic shake-up that I highly recommend is moving away from whatever you normally use to draw and doing it on something low-stakes and casual instead. For me, this is getting off of Procreate and doodling in Goodnotes. Maybe try ballpoint doodles on a napkin or a post-it note. I find that this fools my brain into relaxing my own expectations for my art. I start to think, if it doesn't look good, of course it doesn't; I don't have all the tools, and I'm not doing it seriously anyways. It's a doodle, it doesn't need to be a masterpiece.

This is unfortunately the extent of advice I can give on quick fixes. I would like to say: I often don't like telling people to change because when I get told I need to change, it implies that I'm actively doing something wrong. It feels bad.

But when it comes down to it, the only person that can really determine and meaningfully change the way you think and feel about your art is yourself. I know change is slow and difficult, and not something that can be done on a whim or the flip of a dime, but that's what it takes sometimes if you think you love art enough to want to continue drawing.

For me, I like to think that anything I draw has inherent value simply by being something that I've drawn-- It's not just the result of the time I spent drawing it, but constantly, always, a culmination of years of practice and effort and experiences that are mine, unique to me. That inherent value and the pride it gives me means that no matter how frustrated I feel at not drawing well enough, I know I'll come back to it eventually and continue growing.

I would ask you to consider what you think you draw for. Beyond just why you're frustrated, why is it that a drawing needs to look good to you; where do the stakes come from? Find ways to break down those stakes and lower your expectations, and I think you might find somewhere beneath those the enjoyment that propelled you to draw for so long in the first place.